Mind Games
by Serialgal
Summary: The brothers go on an undercover operation that goes horribly wrong.
1. Chapter 1

_A Numb3rs fanfic. The brothers go on an undercover operation that goes horribly wrong. Rated T or PG 13 for violence and some language._

_This is a wild one. It features dual brother whumping; Don's whumping is unique – so unique that I am applying for a copyright on the story line. As usual, I whump the heck out of Charlie – with him, it's not the 'how,' but the 'who' that will get you. Ian Edgerton is back for this fic, and Megan makes a cameo appearance. _

_I started work on this story last July, and the plot bunny for it predates that by about a year – this one's been hopping around for a while. As I start to post, I'm not yet finished with it, but I'm far enough along that I can start to release some chapters. To start with, I plan to post on Tuesdays and Fridays; I may up the frequency when I finish the story. Many thanks to my priceless betas, FraidyCat and Alice I._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, but I do claim rights to the storyline. Any resemblance of characters to real people, living or dead; is purely coincidental. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this story._

**Mind Games**

**Chapter 1**

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The group gathered in a secure backroom in a building owned by the U.S. federal government, on the Virginia border. They were a collection of heads of government security and law enforcement agencies – NSA, DEA, FBI, among others. Even the CIA, which normally didn't concern itself with domestic matters, was involved - in fact; information from the Central Intelligence Agency had prompted the meeting. Along with the department heads were a scattering of utility men, fixers, not affiliated with any particular group – they moved from one project to the next like nomads, bringing their cunning minds to bear on whatever new problem had erupted.

Dave Maxwell, the head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, eyed the director of the CIA, James Conaghan, dubiously. "It's nothing but conjecture, at this point."

Conaghan shrugged. "Your own people bore it out, Dave."

Bill Masters, one of the fixers, had been following the exchange intently. He had the title of Chief Security Advisor, and was a renowned problem solver, a fixer. On paper, he reported up through a covert ops group in the Pentagon, but he worked in whatever sector to which he was assigned. "Can we start at the beginning?" he asked. "Dave's people bore what out?"

Bob Tompkins, Assistant Director of the NSA, had been leaning back in his chair, idly listening and waiting for the meeting to begin officially. He sat up and addressed Masters and two others who sat behind him, all fixers. None of the three had been in the prior meetings. "A couple of weeks ago, the CIA got wind of a potential plan to smuggle weapons technology and equipment out of the United States, to Iran. They actually picked up the lead from our operatives in Tehran. The operatives had no idea where the source would be in the United States, or even if one has been identified – just that a fundamentalist group in Tehran had put out an offer. The Iranian government maintains that the group, Aswad Shar'e, is an unsanctioned splinter faction, but our guys think that they actually are secretly sponsored by the Iranian government."

One of the other fixers, Brian Rogan, spoke up. "So what does this have to do with Maxwell's agents?"

Dave Maxwell picked up the thread. "I have a couple of agents working undercover, both inside, one pretty deep. They've been trying to infiltrate an outfit called Montreaux International, Ltd, based out of New Orleans, owned by a wealthy Louisiana businessman, Jack Montreaux. It's supposedly a legitimate import-export business, mostly foodstuffs and textiles, but we believe they're importing more than what's on their manifests – specifically cocaine. We haven't figured out how they're getting it in – that's why our agents are there. Then last week, Montreaux put out word in the business community that he's looking to expand his operations to include shipping equipment and chemicals – as exports."

Masters shrugged. "So, what's suspicious about that?"

"On the surface, nothing," said Maxwell. "But then Montreaux contacted one of our two agents. Our first agent, the one in deep, had brought the second agent in, - we'll call them Agent 1 and Agent 2. Agent 1 had suggested Agent 2 as a utility guy for Montreaux, and Agent 2 has worked his way up through Montreaux's organization. He's currently finding clients for the cocaine dealings, so he's already inside Montreaux's drug business. What our two agents haven't figured out is how Montreaux is getting the stuff in. Last week, in addition to Montreaux's public announcement that he is expanding his export operations, he pulled Agent 2 aside, and asked him to search out experts in programming and higher level math, who might be willing to develop export routes for Montreaux – under the table."

"So in addition to illegal imports, he's adding illegal exports," said Rogan.

Conaghan nodded. "We think so. Of course, we don't know what those exports might be, but the timing of his business expansion, coming so soon after word of the Iranian request, is suspicious. So is the fact that he will be exporting equipment – the same vessels and shipping containers that handle chemicals and construction equipment could also handle weapons manufacturing equipment. We think he might be preparing to make a bid for the Tehran job – or maybe he's already gotten the bid, and is developing capability."

Masters frowned. "Why couldn't he use the shipping channels he uses for the cocaine?"

Conaghan shrugged. "Different product, different source and end locations. It's a lot easier to hide kilos of cocaine than it is to hide manufacturing equipment for nuclear warheads."

"We could be completely off-base on this," conceded Tompkins. "Montreaux may have nothing to do with the Tehran deal, but won't know for sure until we find out what he's up to with this export business."

"Who'd he use to set up his cocaine smuggling routes?" asked Joe Bishop, the third fixer. Like Rogan and Masters, he worked on various projects, but on paper reported up through one of the agencies – in his case, the CIA.

Maxwell answered. "At one point, during the startup of the business, he had a guy working for him whose specialty was computer hacking, but who also was very proficient in higher level math. We think he was the guy who developed Montreaux's smuggling plans for the cocaine."

"So why doesn't he use him again?" pressed Bishop.

Tompkins made a face. "Because he's dead. He was killed in a nasty accident, a year or two after Montreaux's operations really started taking off. Maybe it was coincidence, but it could be Montreaux just didn't want anyone incriminating around. He had the programming he wanted; he didn't need the guy anymore."

"So that's all interesting, but how in the hell would they even get their hands on the equipment?" Masters demanded. "We haven't heard of any thefts, or uncovered any secret weapons equipment manufacturing sites, right?"

"We don't want to underestimate them," Conaghan replied firmly. "They're in this for the long haul – it will take months, probably years of planning. They need to set up a way to get it out of the country, and probably test the shipping method first, with legal equipment. Once they have that, they'll turn their attention to procuring the weapons equipment – if they haven't started already."

It was Rogan's turn to shrug. "So we stick another guy undercover, right? Montreaux will take Agent 2's recommendation – we can put in anyone we want."

"That's the problem," said Maxwell. "We can't put in just anybody. Montreaux gave our agent an example of the type of analysis he's looking for – which was a small goldmine in itself – we think it's a section of his cocaine smuggling scheme, although any pertinent data had been removed, and it's just a small piece, so as of now we can't tell exactly how he's working it. Still, we have experts looking it over, to see if we can extrapolate to get the rest of it. However, judging from the piece we have, he's looking for someone with some very high level mathematical skill. Neither Bob nor I have any agents, much less anyone with undercover experience, with that kind of know-how."

"I do," said Conaghan. "I have four CIA people who would qualify, but they're already in deep covert ops overseas, on projects just as important as this one. We spent years getting them in there – we can't just yank them out." He shot Maxwell and Tompkins a dour look. "You guys are gonna have to look harder at your domestic sources."

They looked back at him stonily; the three of them had obviously already discussed the matter. Mike Jacobs, the DEA head, who up to that point had been silent, spoke up, addressing Maxwell and Tompkins. "I thought you guys brought a list of candidates. I know I've used a couple of your contract people before – what about them?"

FBI Director Maxwell sighed, reluctantly typed a few lines into his laptop, and using a remote, flicked up an image on the wall screen. Six pictures flashed up on the screen – head shots, security photos of six people, with the names underneath. "We've got eight consultants who could possibly do the math work," he said. "But they're not agents, and I can't imagine any of them undercover. Half of them don't even have high enough clearance for this type of work."

Conaghan studied the group with a skeptical expression – five men and one woman, all of them in their fifties, and extremely conservative in their appearance. "Bunch of goddamn stuffed shirts," he muttered, under his breath. "Who else you got?"

Maxwell clicked the mouse, and the remaining two pictures flashed on the screen. Conaghan leaned forward, with interest, and jabbed a finger. "What about that guy – the young one with the long hair?"

Maxwell and Tompkins exchanged a glance. "That's Charlie Eppes," said Maxwell. "He's definitely got the capability; in fact, he's one of the best mathematical minds we've got."

A look of recognition passed over Conaghan's face. "That's the guy we put on the watch list after he sent that email to Pakistan."

"Yeah," said Tompkins, quickly. "I don't think we'd want to consider him for that reason." Frankly, he didn't like the idea of sending any of the consultants on the list undercover, and neither did Maxwell.

Conaghan raised a hand. "Hold on here - I know his clearance was reinstated. My people were the ones who checked out the recipient of the email, and verified that the info was actually being used for legitimate purposes. Other than being a bleeding-heart liberal, we found that Eppes wasn't guilty of anything harmful. In fact, if anything, I'd say the fact that he had the guts to do something like that would make him a candidate – you need someone decisive out in the field."

Maxwell sighed. "Look, Jim, let's cut to the chase here. We've already discussed this. None of these people have the preparation or the make-up to be able to go undercover."

Conaghan sneered. "You guys are a bunch of pussies. The CIA regularly recruits ordinary citizens and puts them to work in some of the hairiest covert situations you can imagine. And you've already got a couple of agents in there – they can help him out."

Mike Jacobs, the DEA head, spoke up. "The DEA has used the Eppes brothers before – both of them. Charlie has a brother, Don – currently SAC of the L.A. office, if I'm not mistaken. I used him back when he worked Fugitive Recovery, pulled him off for some undercover drug stings." He looked at Maxwell wryly. "He was so good at it; I tried to recruit him to come and work for us. What if we set up a cover for both of them – put them in together? Your agent could tell Montreaux they come as a package deal."

Maxwell tried to hide the sour look on his face. He and Tompkins had spent hours outside of the meeting trying to convince Conaghan that it was a bad idea to put any of their consultants into the operation, and now Jacobs wanted to drag in one of his best agents, in addition. Before he could speak, Conaghan jumped in. "That could work. We could set their cover up as brothers, they could work it together – then your consultant would always have an agent with him." He looked at the picture on the screen. "Charles Eppes looks a little bit like a rebel – I think he could pull it off. You got a shot of his brother?"

Maxwell manipulated the mouse, brought up a shot of Don Eppes, and placed it next to shot of Charlie. The group stared at the two pictures for a moment – the lean handsome face, sharp eyes, and short dark hair of Don Eppes, and Charlie's youthful-looking more angular face, surrounded by long dark curls. Even in the picture, Charlie's dark eyes, his expression, exuded an eagerness that spoke of a certain social innocence.

Tompkins made a last ditch effort. This battle was truly between Maxwell and Conaghan – both of them were a level above him, although Tompkins agreed with Dave Maxwell, and was trying to help him out any way he could. "Charlie may look like a rebel, but he's not – he's a little geeky, actually, not very street-smart."

"But he's young enough to not look establishment," argued Conaghan. "And who wouldn't expect a math expert to be a little geeky? We tell our deep cover people they only need to hide their real identities – not their inherent personality."

Tompkins and Maxwell exchanged a look of resignation. "All right," said Maxwell. "I'll ask them."

"You'd better do more than ask," said Conaghan sharply. "There's a lot at stake here."

Maxwell's jaw hardened. "Look, I can order Don to do it – he works for me. Charlie's another matter. He's a private citizen – I can't force him."

Conaghan looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. "Then you'll need to make a good sales pitch, won't you?" He glanced at Rogan and Masters. "I'll tell you what – send a couple of these guys to make your pitch." His eyes bored into Masters', who stared back, unperturbed. "You're a hard-nosed sonafabitch, Masters – I'm sure you could talk them into it."

Masters nodded, emotionlessly. "I know I could."

"All right, then," said Conaghan, "it's set." A moment of silence descended, and all eyes turned to the two pictures on the screen.

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"Juneau!" asked Charlie incredulously. "Alaska?" He and Don stared across the dinner table at Alan, who grinned with ill-concealed delight at the looks on their faces.

"Oh, I don't think we'll get it," Alan said. "It's a huge job, basically revising the whole downtown layout of Juneau. If we did get it, Stan and I would have to contract a whole support staff. It's kind of neat to be considered, though."

"You've certainly got the background for it," Don pointed out, ignoring the unhappy look that Charlie sent his way. "How many of your competitors can claim they have a former city planner for one of America's largest cities on their staff? I'll bet that would carry a lot of weight."

"It has helped to have that on my resume," admitted Alan modestly.

Charlie looked at Alan, trying to hide his anxiety, and failing utterly. "So, that would mean a lot of time away – you'd have to commute every weekend. What about your engineering classes at CalSci?"

Alan raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "It would mean more than commuting, I'm afraid, Charlie. We'd have to move there, at least for the first several weeks. Although once we had the plans nailed down and a crew in place, we could do a lot of it from here. I'd have to skip classes for a semester – fact is; I'd probably be too busy anyway." He smiled reassuringly. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about it – I really doubt we'll get the job."

"Right," said Charlie, but he looked down at his plate, appearing less than relieved. He looked back up, guiltily. 'I mean, I hope you get it – it's a great opportunity."

Don smirked a little. He knew Charlie relied heavily on Alan to help with the house, the daily cooking and cleaning, and if their father got the job, his brother would be facing a dose of reality. "Welcome to the world of the homeowner, Chuck. Look at it this way; you'd finally have a chance to show you can handle the cleaning, cooking and home maintenance on your own." He grinned. "What an opportunity."

Charlie gave Don a sour glance. "I already know what that feels like." Alan shot him a look that said Charlie didn't know the half of it, but wisely stayed silent, as Charlie continued with his own jab. "And anyway, look who's talking? You rent an apartment – no maintenance, not much to clean, and your culinary skills are confined to frozen dinners."

Don refused to be baited; he just grinned, his eyes glinting. "At least I know how to work the microwave." The weekend before, Charlie had accidentally stuck a plate in the microwave with a fork on it; and the resulting arc had set off a minor display of fireworks. Charlie rolled his eyes.

Alan shook his head, smiling to himself. Truthfully, if he did have to go, he was fearful of the condition of the Craftsman when he returned. Charlie was something of a slob – not that he wasn't inherently neat, and he took pains over his personal appearance – he simply was easily sidetracked by projects, which always seemed more important to him than household matters. Don, on the other hand, had always been responsible with his things, and normally kept a tidy apartment. Neither one of them could be bothered with cooking, which Alan personally loved. '_Thank God they don't live together_,' Alan thought to himself. '_They'd drive each other crazy."_

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End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 2**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer. Thank you so much for all the alerts and reviews!_

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FBI Assistant Director Wright eyed the group through the glass wall of the conference room at the L.A. FBI headquarters. It was hard to tell that it was bulletproof, he thought to himself, absently. After a shooting in the office over a year ago, the glass walls had been replaced with a resin-reinforced shatterproof glass, which appeared to be clear and created no distortion. No distortion of the view of the two men in the room, the two dark heads deep in discussion with the L.A. FBI team on a federal case. Wright watched the brothers through the glass for a moment; waiting until the meeting ended and the group began to emerge. Don noticed him immediately upon exiting, and made his way across the bullpen.

A visit to the office by Wright was significant, and Don, as usual, was direct. "What's up?" he asked quietly.

"I need you to come to a meeting this afternoon," Wright said. "Keep it quiet – tell your staff that you have an appointment, if anyone asks. Your brother needs to be there, too – same restriction – he can tell no one." He saw Don's eyes dart unconsciously sideways as he mentioned Charlie, but the agent showed his usual self-restraint, and didn't actually turn to look at his brother. His brow furrowed slightly, however.

"What's this about?"

Wright grimaced, ruefully. "I don't know, they wouldn't tell me. I'm just the messenger, here. The guy in charge had Pentagon credentials. I repeat, you're not to tell anyone, and neither is Charlie. No communications by phone, either. I recommend you catch him on his way out so you can speak to him in person."

Don's frown grew deeper, but he kept his voice to a murmur. "Where and when?"

"Stilton Medical Building on Vineland, in Burbank. It's a large office complex, and only some of the offices are occupied – you're meeting in Suite 2-12 – second floor, suite twelve, at 2:00 p.m. If anyone asks, you have been scheduled for a dentist appointment with Dr. Reagan – so is Charlie. Dr. Reagan has the office across the hall."

Don's frown began to take on an incredulous aspect. "What in the hell is this?" Although his voice was still a murmur, it had risen slightly, and Wright shot him a warning look, then nodded and turned. "Okay," he said loudly, indicating their conversation was at an end. "Thanks for the update, agent."

Don took his cue and nodded. "You're welcome, sir." He watched Wright depart, with a definite sense of unease.

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He pulled into the lot of the three-story brick medical building at 2:00 p.m., and saw that Charlie was already there, sitting in his blue Prius, waiting. Charlie was out of his car before Don had thrown his SUV into park, and his younger brother fell into step beside him as they headed toward the building, nearly vibrating with tension.

"What do you think this is?" asked Charlie, anxiously. "You don't think it's related to my clearance, do you?" His clearance had been re-instated for weeks, but the revocation and the following struggle to get it re-instated had left him feeling a bit insecure.

Don glanced around without appearing to, making sure there was no one near enough to hear them. "I have no idea, Charlie," he said quietly. "Although I would think if there was a problem, they would have yanked you off the case that you're on now."

"True," conceded Charlie, looking slightly mollified. He mercifully fell silent as they approached the building, and remained that way until they found themselves standing in front of Suite 12. He looked up at Don at the door, and they exchanged a wordless glance, then Don turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

Inside, a woman in a suit jacket and skirt sat at a desk, from all appearances, a receptionist. She rose as soon as they entered, revealing shapely legs, enhanced by a pair of Italian heels. The legs did not distract Don from the fact that she wore a holster under her jacket, which flashed briefly into view as she opened the door to an inner room, revealing the low profile handle of a sleek nine millimeter. Two other people were sitting the waiting area, both men, both pretending to be waiting to be seen; both, from Don's estimation, armed agents. He fought down a rising sense of apprehension, walked past the bodyguards, and entered the second room indicated by the receptionist, which held two occupants. He moved through the doorway after Charlie with an impassive face, taking in the two men seated inside over the top of Charlie's curly head. The receptionist closed the door behind them.

One of them rose and extended a hand to Charlie, then to Don. "Have a seat. My name is Bill Masters, Chief Security Advisor, and this is Brian Rogan, U.S. Security Expert. We're here on behalf of Dave Maxwell, and James Conaghan."

"Charles Eppes," said Charlie as he took their hands. Don could see his brother's eyes widen at the mention of Maxwell and Conaghan. He examined the men; both of them were around his age, in their late thirties, well-groomed, muscular, utility men, if he had to make a guess. He shook their hands, but didn't bother to introduce himself. The men already knew well who they were.

Masters handed Charlie a folder with a paper on top of it, and a pen. "Before we begin, I need you both to sign a simple statement, which basically states that you will not divulge any of the subject matter of this conversation."

Charlie's eyes had widened a bit further, and Don reached over and took the folder from him, skepticism on his face. He read the paper; it contained a simple statement to that effect, with the penalty being prosecution if they didn't comply. There didn't appear to be any hidden legalese, so he signed it, and passed it back to Charlie with a nod. He noticed that both men's eyes were on Charlie, seeming to study him as he signed.

As Charlie handed the folder and the paper back, Masters thanked him. "I'm sure you're both wondering what this is about, so I'll get right to it. Your government has need of your services." As he outlined the situation with Montreaux, his as yet unproven illegal ventures, and his request for an expert, Don knew what was coming, but still, when the man looked at Charlie and said, "We would like you to go undercover as the expert -," Don cut him off.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Don," cautioned Charlie.

Don ignored him, his jaw set. "Are you nuts? He's not an agent – what is this, the U.S. government's way of getting back at him for the Pakistan thing?"

"Don," said Charlie again, uncomfortably.

Don rose from his seat. "This is ridiculous, Charlie."

Charlie stayed where he was. "Let's hear the man out," he said. "He came all the way from Washington. And it might be – interesting."

Don glared at him. "Charlie, you cannot possibly be considering this."

Charlie was beginning to get irritated by Don's presumptive statements, and his eyes flashed stubbornly. "I haven't considered anything, yet. I want to hear the rest of it."

Don realized that all of them were staring at him, and he took a deep breath and inclined his head with exaggerated politeness. "Okay." He sat, again silently adding to himself, '_Go ahead and listen, get it out of your system - but there's no way you're doing this. I can't believe they'd even ask._'

Rogan and Masters had been watching the exchange with interest, and Masters cleared his throat. "What I'd been about to say, is that the offer would be extended to both of you. We realize that Dr. Eppes is inexperienced with this kind of thing, and so we intended to send you with him, agent. You would be given new identities, but your relationship as brothers would be part of that."

Don caught Charlie's sidelong glance, the excitement in his eyes, and realized that his brother was well on his way toward buying the idea. Don knew that Charlie was enthralled with Don's past work in Fugitive Recovery, and had asked questions on more than one occasion that Don had refused to answer. He could almost hear the wheels turning in Charlie's head – his brother was bowled over by the excitement, the glamour of going undercover. The only problem was; Charlie had no idea that undercover work wasn't exciting or glamorous – it was primarily tedious and frustrating, and when it wasn't, it was usually as scary as hell.

"It's way too risky," Don said flatly, and at the same time, Charlie said, "I'm listening."

Don pursed his lips tightly, and looked at Rogan and Masters. "Can we have a minute?"

They hesitated; then Masters nodded. "Certainly."

Don waited until they stood and left the room, and then said, "What in the hell are you thinking?"

Charlie's jaw jutted stubbornly. "Maybe that I have an opportunity to help my country, and finally erase any questions around my clearance."

"Charlie, don't bullshit me. Your clearance obviously isn't an issue anymore, because otherwise, these guys wouldn't even be here. Trust me, I've done this stuff before, and you aren't cut out for it."

It was the wrong thing to say. Charlie's eyes grew black, and his jaw set even more tightly. "Everyone that works undercover has to go through a first time – you did. This will be mine."

Don backed off. "Charlie, please, just think about this for a minute. This is dangerous work – any undercover work is, and if they're right about Montreaux's involvement, the stakes are unbelievably high."

"Don, you can't sit there and tell me not to do this, when you know you've done it yourself – and you were probably younger than I am when you did it."

"And I was more experienced then than you'll ever be," Don shot back. "You need a certainly personality for this work, Charlie."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Charlie snapped back.

Don paused, fumbling for words. He was making Charlie angry, and losing ground in the process. "Just that – well, face it - number one, you're not exactly a 'people' person, and number two, people can read you like a book." He held a hand up as Charlie started to protest, and tried to head him off. "That's not necessarily a bad thing – you're an open and honest person. It's just not ideal for something like this."

Charlie's eyes narrowed. "You're fishing for reasons, and not doing a very good job of it. How do you know how I would behave in an undercover situation? It's not like you've seen me do it before." The anger faded from his eyes, and he sighed, disappointment flashing across his face. "Look, I'll admit, I would like this much better if we could work together on it. And it does sound a little nerve-wracking. But even if you don't want to do it, I may take it."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, you don't even know all the details yet. You don't know how long it will take – what about your classes? You haven't even asked them about the risks -,"

"How risky could it be?" Charlie countered. "They have two other agents in there, according to Masters – one of them has been in for two years. I go in, do some programming, find out what I can, and get out. Look, if it makes you feel better, I'll ask them those questions when they come back in. I'll even take some time to consider it, if they give it to me. But right now, I'm thinking seriously about doing this." He looked at Don directly, his eyes steady. "Why did you do it, when you were in Fugitive Recovery?"

"Fugitive Recovery was not undercover work." Don replied steadfastly, trying to dodge the question.

"But you worked undercover," Charlie replied calmly. "You said it yourself. Maybe it was part of your FR work, or maybe it wasn't – but you just admitted it a few minutes ago. So why'd you do it?"

"Charlie, I was a government agent – I was then, and I still am. They can tell me what to work on. You have a choice."

"You didn't have to take an undercover assignment, but you didn't consider saying no, did you?" Charlie pressed, his voice soft, but laced with stubbornness. "If you can't tell me why you did it; then I shouldn't have to tell you why I want to try this. And you have no right to tell me whether I should or not." He stood, walked over to the door and opened it, ending the conversation; then returned and sat, waiting while Rogan and Masters came back into the room. "I'd like a day to think about this," he told them, as they looked at him expectantly. "If I do this, I need to figure out how to arrange for an absence."

"That won't be a problem," said Masters, confidently. He flicked a glance at Don. "Actually, if your brother came with you, we were going to spin the story that you were both pulled out to Virginia to set up a training program at Quantico. We're hoping that this will take only a few weeks, once you're inside."

Don spoke up. "Look, I'll be upfront here." The expressions on Rogan and Masters' faces said that they were wishing he wouldn't be, but Don continued, knowing he was going to hate himself for what he was about to say. "I'm not convinced that Charlie should do this, but if he decides to sign up, I'm in." He caught the look of gratitude on Charlie's face, and a flash of triumph in Masters' eyes.

"Very well," he said. "We can afford one day for you to think it over, but no more." Masters went on, providing more information, including some preliminary details on their assignments, contacts, and payment, among other things. At the end of his talk, he looked at Charlie, becoming suddenly sober. "I need to tell you, Professor Eppes, if you don't do this, we really don't have another good candidate. I hope you factor that into your decision."

As Charlie nodded, looking a bit flattered and equally grave, Don could see that Masters had an expression on his face that said he already knew the outcome, and tasted victory. '_Don't celebrate too soon, mister,_' Don thought to himself. '_By this time tomorrow, I'm going to make sure that Charlie will have changed his mind."_

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Rogan and Masters remained standing while the Eppes brothers exited the room, and were silent for a moment more after the door shut behind them. Rogan spoke first. "So what did you think?"

Masters eyed the closed door thoughtfully. "It could work. They're the best option we have, anyway. I can see what Tompkins meant about Charlie not being street-smart, though. It wasn't hard to read him – or push his buttons."

Rogan snorted softly. "Yeah, I saw that. Although apparently, he can push some buttons of his own - his brother's."

Masters shook his head. "Yeah, they did have a tendency to argue, didn't they? I don't think Don Eppes would let it be a problem, though. He strikes me as a pro. And I'm not worried about signing him up - he'll do what he's directed to do – Charlie's the one who needs to make a decision."

"The only question is; what will he decide?"

Masters grinned. "I think I already know the answer to that one," he said softly. They both glanced down at the dossier open on the desk next to them at the same time, and the photos of Don and Charlie Eppes stared back at them.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Mind Games**

_For Disclaimer see Chapter 1_

**Chapter 3**

Charlie made it back to campus in time for his late afternoon office hours, but his mind wasn't on his work, and more than one student had to repeat a question before he could bring himself to focus. He'd consulted in the past on highly classified projects, many of which he still couldn't mention, but he'd never before been asked to go undercover. The mere thought of it generated both a thrill of excitement and an attack of butterflies.

The truth was; he wasn't sure yet if he would accept the job. The initial "wow" factor was wearing off, along with his natural inclination to bristle whenever Don attempted to tell him what to do, and apprehension was starting to take its place. Still, though, the idea generated an inexplicable sense of excitement. He knew it wasn't justified – even if he took the job it wouldn't be nearly as glamorous as the movies or television made undercover assignments out to be. More than likely, he would not even get to meet the main players, and would spend a few days sitting in front of a computer in a small back room somewhere. Not exactly the picture of the daring covert agent, stalking down a dark alley, gun in hand. Even so, even knowing this, Charlie had to admit, the idea was exciting. Plus, he would be doing something vital for his country; something they apparently had a need for, that few could fulfill.

He knew he'd sounded a bit more accepting of the idea than he should have in front of the men from Washington. He should have been more reserved, because if he decided to decline the offer, he would have created some false hope in the men who had made it – he could sense that they now expected him to say yes. A good part of his reaction was emotional – the minute Don tried to tell him what to do, he reacted the opposite way out of a sense of stubbornness honed by too many childhood arguments. Now, he was wondering how much of his desire to do the job was some innate sense of trying to prove himself to his older brother – trying to show he was just as worldly, just as hip. Secret agent man. Damn, it did sound cool.

He'd always been more than a little awestruck by that part of his older brother's life. It hadn't helped that he didn't know the details and so probably made it seem more exciting than it really had been. Still, now it was here – his chance to be the daring one. Well, at least part of an exciting operation – his brother would be participating, too. That thought, instead of being disappointing, actually tipped the scales in the 'yes' direction – the chance to do something like this with Don, to be apart from everything else they'd ever known, to really work as partners – well, that alone was enough for Charlie to jump at the offer.

His last student had gone, and he gathered his things and packed his briefcase, locking the door on his way out, and made his way through the hallways to Amita's office. He turned down the corridor, and looked down it to see Larry turning into the doorway of her office with unusual haste, and he picked up his own pace. As Charlie drew closer, he heard a squeal of excitement from Amita, and her voice floated out into the hallway. "Oh, my God, Larry – you've got to be kidding me!"

Charlie stepped into her doorway with a questioning grin. Amita looked ecstatic and incredulous, and answered his grin with a huge smile of her own. "Hey," Charlie said, "what's all the excitement?"

She hurried out from around her desk as Larry turned, beaming. "Oh, Charlie," she said, "you aren't going to believe this. Based on our work on the Higgs boson, Larry and I have been invited to Switzerland for the start-up of the Large Hadron Collider."

"Actually, it's not exactly the start-up - they've already begun the process of testing the mechanisms," Larry demurred, "but the progression will take weeks, and it will be attended by some of the top minds in the world of quantum physics. The networking opportunities alone will be extraordinary."

"Wow," responded Charlie, suitably impressed. "Those invitations are nearly impossible to get – that's really amazing." He felt an odd sensation, as if he was being left behind, but he swallowed it and smiled at Amita, giving her a heartfelt hug. "Congratulations – you both deserve it," he said, grasping Larry's hand.

"Larry tells me Millie has already approved the trip," bubbled Amita.

"I would think so," observed Charlie, "this is quite the honor for CalSci's physics department."

Her smile faded a bit as she realized the implications – that he might feel left out, that they would be facing weeks apart. "I hope you don't mind," she said, anxiously, but Charlie waved off her statement with a smile.

"Of course not – I mean, I'll miss you, but I'm happy for you – for both of you. This is a great opportunity." It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he might be traveling himself, going with Don to Quantico, but he stayed silent. He hadn't quite made up his mind to take the assignment yet, but Amita's upcoming trip was just one more reason to go.

He got yet another reason that evening, when he walked in the door of his Craftsman home. Don was already there – Charlie could surmise the reason – he knew his brother would want to take him aside and discuss the offer they'd been given. His father and brother were standing just outside the kitchen door, and as Charlie set down his briefcase, Alan turned, beaming. "Charlie – you'll never guess – you remember the Juneau job?"

"How could I forget?" Charlie asked dryly, and as he spoke, his eyes flickered to Don's face. His brother was wearing a smile, but it looked a bit forced.

"We got it!" crowed Alan, unnecessarily; Charlie knew it was coming by the expression on his father's face. Again, he felt the strange sensation that he was being abandoned, and those closest to him were moving on to bigger things, memorable challenges in their own lives. At that moment, deep inside, almost unconsciously, he made his decision. He had an opportunity to stretch his horizons, too, to do something significant for his country – there was really no reason not to take the undercover job.

He smiled, broadly. "That's great, Dad. I'm really glad for you and Stan. When do you start?"

Based on Charlie's behavior the night before, Alan had obviously been expecting a different reaction, and he looked a bit taken aback, but then his smile returned. "They want us to fly up for an initial meeting on Thursday," he said. "We'll be back to pack over the weekend, we'll take Monday and Tuesday to settle some personal details, and then we go up for at least month starting next Wednesday." He looked at Charlie closely. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

Charlie shrugged and smiled. "Why wouldn't I be? Besides, I may be taking a trip of my own."

He could see Don's expression change and a look of warning flash in his brother's eyes, which he quickly hid as Alan said, "Really - you didn't say anything." Alan looked at Charlie, questioningly.

"Don and I have been asked to go out to Quantico and design a training course for agents on how to apply mathematical techniques to real field applications," Charlie said smoothly. He looked pointedly at Don. "Don's invited too, but he hasn't decided whether or not he'll take it, yet."

"Well, I don't know why you wouldn't," stated Alan warmly, as he turned and pushed through the kitchen door. "It sounds like a great opportunity." His voice floated out from the kitchen as the door swung shut. "And I won't have to worry about you trashing the house while I'm gone."

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Don waited until after dinner, until after he and Charlie were out by the koi pond, to explode. It was muffled, but it was an explosion. "Charlie, what the hell? We haven't even had a chance to talk about this yet, and you're bringing up the cover story."

Charlie had been feeling a little proud of himself over the way he casually broached the subject with Alan, but his smugness evaporated as he saw the frustration on his brother's face. "I didn't say for sure we were doing it – I said 'may'. There's no harm done. And besides, I think I may do it, anyway. Amita and Larry are going to be taking an extended trip to Switzerland to work with the team that's starting up the Large Hadron Collider, Dad's going away – you have to admit, the stars seem to be aligning for our cover. Everyone around me is being handed a unique challenge – and so have I. I think I want to take this. Besides, it's not as if they're asking me to broker drug deals or infiltrate a street gang. It'll be basically like a consulting job – I'll do some programming and hand it over to Montreaux. The only difference is that I'll make a report to the government afterwards."

Don looked at him for a moment, and then sighed. "Charlie – I'm not sure you know what you're getting into, here. Have you heard the saying about the ham-and-egg breakfast?"

Charlie's mouth quirked at the corner. "Yeah – when it comes to providing the meal, the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed." He raised a questioning eyebrow, encouraging Don to get to the point.

"Well, you've done a lot of consulting jobs. For those, you were the chicken – involved. When you're undercover, you're committed. You have to play the part, no matter what. It means that for the sake of your cover, you may have to do things that you don't ordinarily believe in."

Charlie shrugged. "So, I can do that – it's just acting."

"Can you?" Don said softly. "Think of your email to Pakistan – you sent that impulsively, without regard for your personal well-being, or without considering the effect on those around you. If you make an idealistic decision like that undercover, it could cost you your life, or someone else's. Think for a moment about how I'd feel if something happened to you." He watched the wounded look come over Charlie's face, and tried to steel himself against the guilt that rose inside him. He had delivered the message gently, but the words themselves were harsh. They were for Charlie's own good, he told himself – hopefully the statement would make Charlie think twice about taking the job, and if not, he would at least get some idea of the reality of undercover work – the reality that included, sometimes, selling one's soul. Don had emerged from each of his own undercover assignments feeling a little more jaded, a little more cynical about life, and himself. Charlie didn't realize that the danger was more than just physical.

His words apparently had hit home, but not in the way he intended. After Charlie's initial hurt expression, he had carefully composed his features, leveled his voice. "You don't have to worry – I'll hold up my end," he said coolly. "If you don't want to take the job, Don, you don't have to. I'll be fine on my own. In fact, maybe you shouldn't do this, the more I think about it. Contrary to what you might think, I don't need a babysitter."

Don sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Charlie - ," he began, then stopped, then sighed again. "Look, I came here tonight intending to talk you out of this, but I don't really know why I'm fighting it – you're going to do what you want anyway. I know I'm going to regret this, and I'm going on record and stating that I think you shouldn't do it. But if you do it, I'm in – I think I said that already." He saw the look of relief spread across Charlie's face as he spoke, and saw the glimmer of excitement and gratitude in his brother's eyes. It gave him a warm feeling inside, and was almost enough to erase the nasty sense of apprehension in his gut.

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End Chapter 3

_A/N: This was a short one, and we need to move beyond the 'setting the stage,' section, so I plan to post an extra chapter on Sunday. Thanks so much for the reviews!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 4**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thank you all so much for the alerts and reviews. They are very much appreciated. I am going out of town for a business trip this week, so my Tuesday post is going to be moved to Wedesday instead, probably Wednesday evening._

……………………………………………

Don arrived at the Stilton Medical Building twenty minutes early the next day. They had scheduled a follow-up meeting for noon with Rogan and Masters to give them their decision, but a sleepless night had driven Don to make one last attempt to try to talk them out of using Charlie. To do that, he needed to meet with them alone, so at nineteen minutes before twelve, he found himself ascending the stairs to the second-floor office, trying to fight off the uncomfortable feeling that came with the realization that he was going behind his brother's back.

The woman with the great legs and the nine-millimeter was staffing the desk in the waiting area, and after getting approval from Masters, she showed Don in. Masters, the politician, was up on his feet immediately, extending a hand. "Agent. You're here early."

Don shook his hand, and following Master's lead, sat. "Yeah, I wanted to run something past you before Charlie got here." At Rogan and Masters' inquisitive looks, he continued. "I'm willing to take the job, but I would prefer that you use someone other than Charlie for the math work. You can't tell me you have no other options."

Rogan and Masters exchanged a look; then Rogan spoke. "Actually, we really don't. There are a handful of people who have the proper clearance and can handle that level of mathematics, but they are all quite a bit older and more conservative than Charlie – they'd be a lot tougher to pass off."

Masters had narrowed his eyes, and was studying Don. "Is there something we need to know about your brother?"

"I just don't think he's cut out for this. I don't know if he can keep up a credible front – he's pretty easy to read."

Masters pursed his lips. "You don't think twice about selling him out, do you?"

Don flushed, and his dark eyes snapped. "I'm not selling him out. I'm making an unbiased observation, for his good, and yours. I've done this before, and when you're out there, no one's gonna cut you any slack – you'd better be damned sure you know what you're doing. I'm not certain he does, and even if he tried, I'm not sure he could pull it off."

"And we think he can," returned Masters easily. "We're going to make every attempt to control the situation, and try to make sure one of you agents is with him at all times." His expression hardened. "In fact, the person I'm having doubts about right now is you. You seem to be having a hard time with this. What is it, agent? Over-protectiveness? Or just plain sibling rivalry?"

Don tightened his lips, as if to physically hold in the retort that was forming on his tongue. When he spoke, however, his voice was level. "Neither. I'm simply trying to figure out what will give you the best chance of success, without jeopardizing either your mission or my brother. And I think that would be to send me, with another consultant."

"The only way that's going to happen is if Dr. Eppes refuses the job," replied Masters, smugly, as the phone buzzed. He had Don where he wanted him, and he knew it.

Rogan jabbed a button, and the woman in the waiting area answered. "Dr. Eppes is here," she intoned.

"Send him in," said Masters, and as he disconnected, he murmured, "right on cue."

Charlie entered, and his eyebrows rose slightly at the sight of Don, but he didn't seem unduly surprised that his brother was already there. He obviously hadn't even considered the possibility that Don would try a pre-emptive move to take him out of consideration, and the realization left Don feeling both vindicated and guilty for trying – it was yet another example of his brother's naivety, and Don himself had just tried to exploit that. He watched as Charlie shook the men's hands, and then sat, looking expectantly at Masters, who said, "Well, Professor, have you come to a decision?"

Charlie shot a sideways look at Don before he turned back to Masters and said, "I have. I'll take the job."

Masters looked at Don. "And you, agent?"

Don swallowed the sickening feeling that Charlie's words had prompted. He could see Charlie glancing at him, but Don looked directly at Masters when he answered. "I told you yesterday, if he signed up, I was in." He saw the relief in Charlie's eyes, and a self-satisfied look on Masters' face that made him want to punch the man. Instead, he sat there as Rogan pulled up some files.

"Good," said Rogan. "I know you're both on your lunch hours and need to get back, and we don't have a lot of time. We'll need to meet again before you leave, and you'll get a little more briefing down there. But while we're here, I'm going to give you a few more details on your covers." He flipped open a file. Charlie leaned forward expectantly, but Don remained immobile, his face inscrutable as he looked at the contents from his position, slouched against the back of the chair.

"We'll leave your first names the same," said Rogan. "It's easier that way, less chance of a slip-up. Your surname will be Archer. We need you to give us a city you've both spent some time in – some place that you're both somewhat familiar with."

Charlie and Don looked at each other. "He spent a good deal of time in Albuquerque, but I haven't," said Charlie. "Of course, we've both been to Washington, D.C. -,"

"We'd like to stay away from that one," said Masters. "There might be a subconscious association with government."

Don sat there; he realized that he really knew very little about Charlie's travels – he knew his brother had spent time in Princeton and London, and he knew that Charlie had traveled extensively for mathematics conferences, but hadn't really paid attention to where. He'd never discussed his fugitive recovery work with his family, so Charlie had no grasp of Don's travels either.

Rogan looked from Charlie to Don, and back again. "Anything? You guys _are _brothers, right?"

Charlie flushed, and looked at Don. "I was in Boston a few times, visiting MIT…"

"Yeah," said Don. "I've been to Boston a couple of times."

"No good," said Masters. "Bostonians have a very recognizable accent; they'll wonder why you don't."

"They could claim they were raised somewhere else, and have been working out of Boston the last couple of years," said Rogan.

"What about Chicago?" asked Don.

"Yeah, I've been to Chicago several times," replied Charlie, brightening.

Rogan nodded. "Chicago it is. We'll actually fly you there prior to going to New Orleans, and you can spend a day before you go down – kind of a crash course on the city. We'll have your driver's licenses and passports made up with Chicago addresses.

We'll pick Chicago schools for you, make up some credentials – it will be in the files. You'll need to study up on it prior to going down."

"Basically, the story is, since college you've both freelanced, tried to start your own business consulting firm together. Your success was mediocre; then Don, you started branching into some shadier deals. You pulled Charlie in on some of them. Over time, those deals got even more questionable, and you're now heavily into drug trafficking and gambling – not your own ventures – what you specialize in is making contacts, and then establishing connections among the players for a fee. You more or less represent the dealers and bookies; hook them up with sources and clients. While you're down there, you won't just be supporting Charlie – you'll be trying to get your own job with Montreaux working the cocaine angle, and attempting to help our agents find out how Montreaux is getting it into the country."

Rogan looked at Charlie. "Charlie, your freelancing has been more legitimate. You consult for reputable firms, but you've also done illegal work for your brother's clients under the table. The type of job Montreaux is looking for is right up your alley. You may also get a shot at figuring out the cocaine smuggling operations, but what we really want from you is what Montreaux is up to with his new export business, and whether or not it ties in to the Tehran offer. We're hoping you get the chance to get into his computer system, do some looking around. Part of your training will be spent with an expert computer hacker, learning some techniques."

He opened another file. "We have two agents inside – the one in deep, which we'll call Agent 1, will obviously know who you are, but you'll have no need to know Agent 1's identity – there will be less chance of screwing up. You'll be working closely with Agent 2 – he's the one who will suggest you to Montreaux, so you'll need to know who he is." Rogan pulled a picture out of the file, and a look of recognition crossed both brothers' faces.

"That's Ian!" Charlie sounded surprised.

Rogan and Masters exchanged a glance. "You've worked with Agent Edgerton before, I take it," said Masters.

"A couple of times," said Charlie. Don was silent, and Charlie glanced at him uncertainly. "Don has worked with him more than I have."

Rogan pursed his lips. "He's been working as Ian Crocker on this job, helping move the cocaine to dealers once it's gotten inside U.S. borders. Ian will suggest to Montreaux that he use you, Don, and your contacts, to help him expand his cocaine distribution, and he'll suggest you, Charlie, as a candidate for the export consultant. You can expect some time – days, maybe weeks - before Montreaux will make a move. He'll want to check you out first – he'll have people check your backgrounds, and if this works anything like it did with Ian, he'll invite you to some social events, first, see how you interact with his people. Those first couple of weeks will be critical – he'll be watching you like a hawk, testing you, and if he catches the slightest whiff of anything off, he won't make you an offer."

Don sat silently, listening while Rogan went on; watching as Charlie eagerly absorbed everything the fixer told him. The more details they got, the more excited Charlie seemed, and the more apprehensive Don became. As undercover operations went, this was very complex; something Charlie, with his lack of experience, didn't realize. Don knew that his brother had made up his own mind; he was an adult. That didn't erase the feeling that he was somehow responsible for Charlie; that he should have been able to convince his younger brother not to do this. He tried to focus on the conversation, but all he could think of was what would he tell his father, if the worst happened? A vision of Charlie in a body bag, and his father's look of grief and reproach, suddenly materialized in his mind, and his gut lurched.

He realized that Charlie and the two fixers were looking at him expectantly, and he jerked his mind back to the conversation. "I'm sorry, what?"

"They want us to fly to Chicago on Friday," said Charlie, his eyes gleaming. "Can you get away by then?"

"Yeah," said Don. "You guys will need to clear this with Wright, but I can get away."

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As it turned out, Don was glad to get away quickly – if they had to go, at least he wouldn't have to face Alan before he left. His father was coming back in from Juneau Friday night, but they had departed for Chicago earlier that day. Charlie had called Alan and told him they were taking the Quantico job, and although Alan had been disappointed not to see them before they went, he seemed happy with the idea that they would both be working together, developing courses. If he only knew the half of it, Don thought to himself, morosely. Not for the first time, he felt like a sneak. He'd had to lie to his team and to Robin; he and Charlie had told everyone they were going to spend several weeks in Quantico developing courses and running the pilot versions of the classes. Charlie had admitted to Don that he, too, found that part of it hard – lying to Alan, Amita, and Larry. The worst had been Millie; she had nearly refused to let Charlie go, with Amita and Larry scheduled to leave also, and it being the beginning of the spring term. It had actually taken a private call by FBI Director Dave Maxwell to convince her that Charlie's absence was necessary, and that they were under tight timing to develop the courses. Even the big guy was lying on their behalf.

Chicago at the end of January was a frigid version of hell; the wind whipping off the lake cut right through a person, and at one point, a particularly nasty gust had nearly knocked Charlie, who was shorter and slighter, off his feet. Prior to departing L.A., Charlie had spent a day with the computer expert learning hacking techniques; now they were both taking a crash course on the city of Chicago. They spent Saturday touring the town and their supposed residences – separate apartments, neither too far from the Sears tower. They memorized landmarks, and at night hopped the bars and restaurants, trying to commit as many to memory as they could. They had phone numbers of fictional bookies and drug dealers – all of them agents posing as Don's contacts, in case any of Montreaux's people wanted to check references.

In spite of the cold, it was actually almost fun, Don thought with surprise, as they stepped out of yet another bar into the bitter January night. Charlie winced as the wind hit him, but he grinned up at Don as his curls danced around his face, illuminated by a streetlight. There was no danger yet – they were merely establishing cover, playing at being spies, like children playing make-believe. The real stuff wouldn't hit until New Orleans.

The next day, they caught a flight out of O'Hare International, non-stop. As it touched down on the runway at Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, Don looked at Charlie, gazing out of the small airplane window with excitement and tension written in every line of his body. The games were over – the real stuff had begun.

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End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 5**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks again for all the alerts and reviews! I've been to New Orleans a couple of times, and I love the place._

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Charlie glanced sideways at Don as his brother navigated their rented Monte Carlo along Highway 61. Don had been an enigma since they'd left L.A., brooding and quiet. He had opened up a little the night before in Chicago after a couple of bar stops and a couple of beers, actually cracking a smile once or twice. For the most part, however, he'd been intense, quiet, completely focused on the task in front of them, going over the places and names they needed to know for their background, and quizzing Charlie on them relentlessly in their hotel room that evening. His grim behavior had actually started to rattle Charlie a bit – it really seemed that his brother didn't want to be there, and Charlie wondered if the aloofness was hiding resentment towards him. After all, he was the one who had pushed for this. If he hadn't signed up for this job, Don wouldn't be here.

Don's behavior was disquieting, but at least it was normal, until they hit New Orleans. As soon as they disembarked from the plane, Charlie noticed a shift in Don's mannerisms. The tension seemed to vanish, along with the grim expression. Everything about him seemed to relax; Don's walk; the set of his shoulders, his face – he'd slipped into another persona – cool, confident, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. The eyes remained watchful, but the furrow between them was gone; the intensity hooded. Charlie suspected that his brother had begun to assume his cover persona, and the thought unsettled him. Did Don really think they were already being watched? It made Charlie look around nervously; and that earned him a sharp glance from his brother.

Don hadn't dropped the façade even in the car, and Charlie was beginning wonder at it a bit. The sheer ease of it all was possibly the most unnerving part of it – the fact that his brother could so readily shed his own personality and adopt another, like flicking a switch, both impressed and startled Charlie. He looked at the profile beside him, so familiar, but now somehow foreign, and wondered how well he really knew his brother. There was a past there, deeper and darker than Don had apparently cared to admit. Part of it had apparently been spent in New Orleans – Don seemed to know his way around town.

Charlie sent one more glance toward him; then pulled his gaze away as the highway wound through Metairie. They were transitioning onto I-10 now, and Charlie watched the landscape change with interest as they exited onto Orleans Avenue, into the Vieux Carre, or old town. He had never been to New Orleans, but everyone had heard about Hurricane Katrina, and along the way, he saw several areas that were still being rebuilt as a result of the storm damage. Don turned toward the French Quarter, skirting Louis Armstrong Park, and they finally found themselves at their destination, a moderately priced hotel on Royal Street.

Like many of the buildings in that area, it was a mere three stories, with a pastel front and black wrought iron balconies overlooking the street below. Fresh paint adorned the front, but it still invoked the feeling of age; as did the entire street; the quaintness of the pastel fronts and very French-looking wrought iron balconies gave the old street a charm, like an aging southern belle. Or perhaps, more like an aging prostitute – anyone, from drunks to cross-dressers, mixed with the tourists, giving the streets a lively but slightly seedy air. The buildings themselves defied classification – porn shops sat next to establishments selling fine china or expensive furniture; tiny hole-in-the-wall street bars hawking "Monster Hurricanes" served in large garish plastic cups sat next to venerable jazz halls. It was beautiful and raunchy and fascinating, and felt just a bit dangerous.

Don dropped Charlie off in front of the hotel and unloaded the luggage, hesitating for just a moment after closing the trunk. The hotel parking lot was a multilevel garage, about a block away. "It's okay," Charlie said, dryly. "I think I can check in by myself."

Don's lip curled in a slight, rueful smile, and he looked like himself for the first time since they'd landed. "Okay. I'll meet you in the room."

An automatic hinged door had been installed next to the older revolving door, a nod to modern necessity, and Charlie maneuvered the luggage inside to the small lobby and approached the desk. "Reservations for Archer," he said to the clerk, a slender, sallow-faced man in a navy jacket.

"Right," said the man, his voice tinged with a slight Southern accent. "I have here that you requested a first floor room, on the far end of the hall next to the exit. Is that correct?"

Charlie had no idea – he hadn't made the reservations, but he surmised that someone had requested the room for a good reason, so he said, "Right."

"How many keys?"

"Two." He handed the man a credit card that said "Charles Archer," and signed his name with a flourish. '_Charles Archer._' It looked odd, foreign, and exciting.

He grabbed the two plastic key cards and managed to roll both suitcases down the hallway to the last room on the left. It faced the street, and was adjacent to an exit door on the end of the hallway, which opened into an alley. No sooner was he inside than his cell phone rang, and he flipped it open without checking the number and answered automatically, "Charlie Eppes."

His heart skipped a beat as soon as the name was out of his mouth, and he almost gasped with relief as he heard Amita's voice on the other end of the line. He was going to have to watch himself, and he mentally resolved to switch to a simple 'hello' when answering his phone, and to check the number before he spoke.

"Charlie," came Amita's voice. "I'm glad I caught you. How's D.C? Larry and I are at the airport waiting for our flight, and I thought I'd give you a call before we took off."

"That was nice," Charlie responded, frowning at noise that was growing out on the street. It sounded like raucous music and was getting louder; he could hear it even through the closed windows. He stepped over to the window and pulled aside a sheer drapery. It was starting to rain. Across the street, he caught a glimpse of Don, walking back from the garage. Immediately in front of the hotel an impromptu gay rights parade was going by, featuring a Dixieland band and a number of cross-dressers in outlandish costumes. In spite of the rain and temperature, which averaged slightly above 60 degrees Fahrenheit in New Orleans in January, many of them were scantily dressed.

Charlie stared and then shook his head in amazement. Even on a Sunday afternoon in the rain, the French Quarter put on a show. He let the drape drop closed, as Amita said, "What's that noise? Where are you?"

"At the hotel," he said, "it's just the TV. Some documentary on the history of jazz." He was both satisfied and disturbed by how natural the lie sounded.

Amita sighed on the other end. "I'm not looking forward to this flight," she said. "Thirteen hours, including a stop in Pittsburgh."

"Yeah, that's a long one," Charlie responded, as a knock sounded at the door. Don. He headed toward it, glancing at the two room keys he'd set on the dresser, and with his cell phone still at his ear, opened the door and turned away in the same motion, trying to hear what Amita was saying.

In the next instant, he felt a rough hand grab his collar. His attacker pulled him backwards and, heart lurching, he stumbled into the man, dropping his cell phone as something hard and cylindrical pressed into his neck, under his jawbone.

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Joe Bishop, the third fixer, sat in the den of the small house the CIA had rented on the southwest side of New Orleans and glanced at his watch. The Eppes brothers had been due to land over an hour ago, and Agent Edgerton was supposed to have made contact by now. As if in response to the thought, the phone rang, and Bishop checked the number; then lifted the receiver. "Yeah."

"I'm calling to check on a flight reservation."

"You've got the wrong number."

"This isn't Tran Air?"

At the code word, Bishop said, "Crocker." Even though Edgerton had used the code word signifying that it was all right to talk, Bishop still took the precaution of using his cover name.

"Yeah."

"Did you make contact?"

"Yeah, a few minutes ago. Met Don in the parking garage and handed off the jackets. We're going to test them tonight."

"Good. Anything from Montreaux yet?"

"He agreed to send a dealer tonight to the Vieux Carre to meet with Don. Corner of Chartres and Conti, at eleven. I think his guy will check Don out; if he likes what he sees he may make a deal, test out Don's contacts."

"Okay. I'll give a heads up to our guy that he may have to go in and make a buy. Have Don contact me if he gets an offer."

"Okay. I'll have him check in later tonight."

"Roger that."

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Amita frowned and looked at her cell phone to see if it still showed a connection; then put it to her ear again. "Charlie?"

Larry raised his eyebrows. "Poor connection?"

"Must be," muttered Amita. "Charlie?" She waited for a response, glancing at Larry. "He must be really bored – he's watching a documentary on the history of jazz in his hotel room."

Larry looked sympathetic. "It's a shame he couldn't come with us. I'm sure he would have found our trip to be much more stimulating."

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Charlie gasped and tensed, getting ready to try to pull away, when suddenly the man behind him released his collar and gave him a gentle push. He staggered away, turning to face his attacker, as Don shut the door and said, "Charlie, next time, look to see who's at the door before you open it."

He tossed his keys on the table, and Charlie realized that the hard object at his neck was simply Don's cylindrical key fob. He scowled, rubbing his jaw, and picked up his cell phone. "Amita – sorry. I was letting Don in and I dropped the phone. Oh – okay. Yeah, have a good flight. I'll talk to you in the morning."

He flipped the phone shut, and gave Don a disgusted look. "What in the heck was that for?

Don had reclined on one of the double beds, hands under his head, with a slightly amused smile on his face. "There's a viewing hole in the door, Charlie, use it."

"How do you know I didn't look first?"

"Because there was light shining through the hole. If you looked through it, you would have blocked the light. Not only that, you didn't even look to see who it was after you opened the door."

"I knew it was you," Charlie protested. "I saw you out the window right before you crossed the street."

Don ignored him, with the look of someone who knew they'd already won the argument. Two jackets were lying next to him on the bed, and he sat up and tossed one to Charlie. "Try that on."

Charlie caught it and shook it out to look at it, then glanced at the other jacket on the bed. Both of them were made of denim; his was lighter, made of distressed medium blue fabric, the other was a dark navy with a black cast to it. "Where did these come from?"

"Ian met me in the parking garage," said Don. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. "The jackets have GPS tracking chips in them. Ian wants to try them out tonight. Yours has a little pocket sewn into the inside hem at the bottom. He said you'd find a flash drive in it. There's some info on it concerning Montreaux's computer systems. He said you can also use it later to store anything you find on his systems – provided you get the chance."

Charlie had found the flash drive, which was smaller than any he'd seen; about half the size of his own, and he turned it over in his fingers; then tucked it back in its fabric slot and pulled on the jacket. Don shrugged on his denim jacket at the same time, and they looked at each other.

"I knew it was you," Charlie said.

Don rolled his eyes. "Right."

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A half hour later, they hit the streets. The rain had stopped, but water still gushed next to the curbs, and they picked their way across from corner to corner. They walked all the way up to One Shell Square, and Don indicated the sleek glass high rise with an inclination of his head. "That's where Montreaux's offices are," he murmured, and Charlie glanced at the building, then away, as they walked by it. "His warehouses are in the Lower Garden District." Turning, they headed back into the French Quarter, and reached the corner of Bourbon and Royal by seven. There was a corner restaurant with 'bistro,' in the name and they headed inside to find dinner.

For Don, that was a steak, but Charlie wanted to sample the local fare, and studied the menu. "What's in jambalaya?" he asked the waiter.

"Everywhere is different," said the man. He was dark-skinned and had an accent, and Charlie listened, trying to place it. "Jambalaya has vegetables, and then meat or seafood. Ours has andouille, shrimp, duck, and tasso – that is Cajun ham. Served over rice."

Charlie decided to try it, and when Don ordered a beer, he followed suit. "What in the hell's 'andouwee?'" Don asked after the man had gone, trying to mimic the waiter's pronunciation.

Charlie shrugged and grinned. "I don't know." He glanced slyly at Don. "You're the one who's been here before, you should know."

"Who says I've been here?" Don's tone was light, and he smiled, but his eyes flashed a warning and Charlie shut up, pondering the mysterious andouille.

It turned out to be spicy Cajun sausage, and at the first bite, Charlie grabbed his beer and took a large gulp. Don grinned around a mouthful of steak. "Hot, huh?"

Charlie's eyes were watering. "Yeah. The rest of it's not too bad, but that sausage packs a punch. Wow." Still, he managed to plow through half the plate full of food along with another beer, and left the restaurant with a warm sensation in his gut and most decidedly, feeling more relaxed. He was almost starting to get used to Don's alter ego – the cool, half-amused look; not quite a smile, the confident, unhurried walk that was not quite a swagger.

"So what are we doing, anyway?" he asked as they turned down another street.

Don glanced at him, his expression enigmatic. "Getting ready to sell some drugs," he said, and Charlie stopped for a moment, staring, wide-eyed. Then with a nervous glance around him, he hurried after his brother.

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End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: As promised, here is my normal Friday night post. There are some lighthearted moments in the beginning of this fic, but it gets very dark as it goes along. You'll see the tone start to change in the next few chapters._

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"Selling -," Charlie started to repeat, but Don held up a warning finger to cut him off. Don kept silent until they reached a less populated area, and stopped on a corner. The street they had been traversing was well lit and filled with people; the next street was dark and relatively deserted. Across the street and down a block, the road was adorned with lights and people again, but in between it was dark, and down the side street it was darker yet, and almost completely deserted. That seemed to be a pattern in this city; one had to watch oneself, or he might end up in a block that wasn't the healthiest place to be.

Don leaned casually against the brick wall of a corner shoe store, which had been closed for the night. He waited until some revelers walked by, then said quietly. "We're establishing our covers. We're out on the town, barhopping. As a drug dealer, I'm getting the lay of the land, checking out potential sellers and buyers. We'll do a lot of walking tonight, hit some bars; try to get a feel for dealers and their territories. Along the way, we'll meet up with Ian. He'll try to find us by using the trackers in our jackets to make sure they work. Around eleven, he and I are going to make a deal, a few blocks from here. You'll be back at the hotel again by then."

Charlie frowned. "A deal?"

"Drugs." Don fell silent as another group of partiers approached, and Charlie stared at him while they passed. One of them shot a nervous glance down the dark street, and they hurried across.

"Drugs?" Charlie managed, as soon as they had passed.

"Ian's hooking me up with one of Montreaux's dealers. I'm going to offer him a lead on one of my contacts, a potential buyer, for a fee."

Charlie looked only slightly relieved at that. "So you aren't going to actually sell him any drugs."

"No – I'm too highly placed for that. My cover is a middleman – I hook up buyers and sellers, and take fees from both for doing it. I wouldn't stoop to dealing."

"So, what happens if Montreaux's guy wants to sell to your buyer?"

"We have an agent who will pose as a rep from the buyer, if it gets to that. Our handler will call that in; get it arranged."

"Joe Bishop," affirmed Charlie. He and Don had been given their handler's name along with an emergency number by Rogan and Masters, and had been told to memorize it.

"Yeah," said Don. "C'mon, let's walk."

They stopped in a bar for a beer; then continued on, Don observing the patrons, the people on the streets, taking in information about which Charlie could only guess. It was now near nine, the French Quarter was decidedly more crowded, and the crowd was getting louder. People walked down the streets with plastic cups containing drinks; if there was an open container law, the police weren't enforcing it. And there were plenty of police, at least on the streets filled with people. They probably had enough on their hands with crowd control, thought Charlie. His thoughts slid back to Don's planned meeting with the drug dealer; the more he thought about it, the more he was taken with the urge to go with him. His own part in this operation would undoubtedly be rather boring – he'd be stuck away in a room with a computer, he had no doubt. This could be his one and only chance to see a little real action, and it sounded mundane enough not to be frightening, but just risky enough to be interesting. He sidled next to Don, and spoke quietly, his words covered by the din on the street. "I want to go with you tonight."

Don shook his head firmly. "No. There's no need for you to be there."

Charlie insisted, "We're supposed to work together, right? It might be good for me to see it."

Don glanced sharply at him, but before he could reply, his gaze was arrested, traveling over Charlie's head. At the same instant an arm fell over Charlie's shoulders; he jumped a little, and his head jerked around to see Ian's face next to his, smiling insouciantly.

"Charlie Archer!" Ian exclaimed, "How ya' doing?"

"Hey, Ian," returned Charlie, as Ian dropped his arm and fell into step beside them, jockeying his way among the crowd until he was between the brothers.

"Ian," Don murmured by way of a greeting. He spoke into Ian's ear, keeping his voice low enough so that Charlie couldn't hear. "Charlie just told me he wants to come along later. I don't think it's a good idea."

Ian gave him a nod, turned his face away from Charlie, speaking quietly. "I heard. He could, but there's no real reason for him to be there, and there's no sense taking an unnecessary chance." He grinned at Don, cryptically. "I think I can fix this. Your jackets work fine, by the way." He led the way to another bar, a raucous place on a corner with the two outside walls open to the evening air.

They found a place at the bar. Ian and Don were standing and conferring quietly, and Charlie, who was beginning to feel a little ignored, spied a bar stool that had just been abandoned, and dragged it up next to them and sat. He glanced around at the crowd; the ubiquitous Hurricanes were being served here also, in real Hurricane glasses instead of plastic cups, and he wondered idly what they tasted like. A young college kid wearing a Tulane sweatshirt had just gotten two of them, and Charlie watched as he waded through the crowd and handed one to his girlfriend. She grinned at him, took a drink from the straw, and then chewed on the end of it coquettishly. She had dark hair, and reminded him of Amita.

The bartender approached Ian, who turned to Charlie, his voice a near-yell over the din. "What are you having, Charlie?"

"A Hurricane!" Charlie yelled back, and Ian raised an eyebrow; then grinned and nodded.

Ian turned back to the bartender as Charlie glanced back at the crowd, and spoke quietly. "One Hurricane, triple the liquor." Ian ordered two beers along with it, and then turned to Don. "That ought to take care of him. One of them is bad enough – a triple will put him to bed for the night." He grinned, a little wickedly. "It was the perfect thing for him to order - it's hard to taste the alcohol because of the fruit juice. It's a good thing he's sitting down."

Don felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at Charlie sitting, blissfully unaware, on the barstool. "I don't know," he muttered. "Maybe that's not such a good idea. He really needs to keep a clear head, here."

Ian looked unconcerned. "For what? There's nothing happening tonight as far as he's concerned, and it won't hurt your covers – it may even help. Plus, it gives us an excuse to exclude him later tonight – that's better than exposing him to unnecessary risk."

Don sighed, and nodded reluctantly. Even Charlie couldn't argue that he should be allowed to go along if he wasn't thinking straight. "This is my last one, myself," he said. "I've got a couple hours before the meeting – I need to clear my head."

"The guy you're meeting sells product for Montreaux to bigger retailers," replied Ian, keeping his voice at a level that only Don could hear. Even so, he kept his language generic – 'product' instead of drugs, 'retailers' instead of dealers. "He may bring along a buddy – and you can bet that they'll report back to Montreaux on their impression of you. I think it'll be pretty low risk – this is simply a scouting mission. If Montreaux likes what he hears, he'll probably proceed with the sale to your buyer. If that goes well, he may proceed with another deal first, or he may ask to meet Charlie. It depends on how much time he has, and how comfortable he feels with the two of you."

Don nodded. He was well aware that first impressions would dictate whether Montreaux would want to set up dealings with him, and even more importantly, with Charlie. If he screwed this up, Charlie would never get his foot in the door. All the more reason to make sure Charlie stayed at the hotel, he told himself, as he watched the bartender set a Hurricane in a large glass in front of his brother. One less person meant one less chance for things to go wrong.

The bartender set their beers in front of them, and Ian spoke again as the man moved away. "We're being watched – Montreaux's got another guy here. I knew about it, but you're not supposed to. Just wanted to give you a heads-up."

"Don't tell me who – not now," said Don. He didn't want to risk making eye contact and making the man suspicious. "I take it he's not close enough to hear anything – maybe you can fill me in on who I'm meeting later."

Charlie shot another glance at Don and Ian. He was straining to hear the conversation, but could make out nothing over the din, and was afraid to try harder. He didn't want to appear too interested – so he acted uninterested instead, which was no great feat; he was a little bored. He slouched on his bar stool, idly sipping his drink and watching a television set on the far wall, which was running a basketball game. The sound was either turned down or drowned out by the crowd; he couldn't tell which. The college kid in the Tulane sweatshirt showed up at the bar again for another round of drinks, and Charlie realized that both he and his girlfriend were on their way to out-drinking him two-to-one. He'd been taking his time with his drink; it tasted strong to him, but as he looked around, he realized that the young man's girlfriend looked none the worse for wear, and he decided that the drinks must not be as strong as he thought. He wasn't a big drinker to begin with, and was definitely out of practice, he told himself.

As if reading his mind, Ian leaned over and smirked, "Taking your time with that girly drink, aren't you, Archer?"

Charlie shot him a dirty look, and took a healthy swig. Ian and Don were over halfway through their beers, and Charlie, not to be outdone, attacked his drink with renewed energy.

Several minutes later, Ian glanced over to see that Charlie's drink was nearly gone, and spoke in an aside to Don. "I think he's probably pretty well primed by now. You may want to start walking him back to the hotel while he still can."

Don glanced at Charlie and raised a dubious eyebrow. His brother actually looked fine; Don couldn't determine any adverse effects of the drink. Charlie slid off his stool easily as he saw Edgerton put money for the drinks on the bar, and Don murmured to Ian, "I'm not so sure your strategy worked."

Ian sent him a grin. "Have you ever had one of those? Trust me, he downed it pretty fast. It'll kick in – more than likely before you get back."

In fact, Don noticed the effects before they even made it out of the bar. As they stepped out from under the confines of the roof to the sidewalk outside, he could see that Charlie's steps were slightly unsteady. He stepped up beside him, exchanging a glance with Ian as he did so. "Doing okay, there, Chuck?"

Charlie could feel a floating sensation that wasn't entirely unpleasant, and he glanced up at Don to see his brother smiling down at him, with an amused look. 'Not _Don_,' Charlie corrected himself, mentally. '_Undercover Don_.' Undercover Don, with his cool, knowing look, and even cooler demeanor. Streetwise, sharp, savvy. Undercover Don. He beamed at his brother. "I'm _fine_," he said emphatically. "How're you?"

Ian looked away to hide a smile, and Don stifled his own grin. "C'mon, Charlie, let's walk," he said.

They moved off down the sidewalk, strolling more slowly for Charlie's sake, who was having a little difficulty navigating the crowd. Charlie was beginning to realize, belatedly, that the drink was hitting him harder than expected, and he had to concentrate in order to think and move normally. As they reached the next block, he could see three tall, striking women on the street corner, all dressed similarly in miniskirts, heels and short jackets, all of them with long luxurious manes. As the three men crossed the street, the women eyed them appreciatively. Ian and Don ignored them; in fact, they gave them a wide berth, but Charlie passed by a little closer and one of the women reached out suddenly and grabbed him by the jacket sleeve with a manicured hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong; either that, or the alcohol really had him off-balance, and her grasp spun him around.

"Hey, sugah," she purred in a deep Southern accent. "You're a cutie." She tossed her long blond hair, and Charlie, whose vision was beginning to blur a little, looked up at her, and got a wavering impression of red lips and white teeth, bared in a smile.

One of the others, a dark-skinned black girl, licked pastel-glossed lips. "I could just eat him up," she said, in a low throaty voice.

Charlie heard no more, another hand yanked him by the sleeve, and he found himself stumbling after Don. "C'mon, Charlie, you don't want to mess with them."

Charlie smirked at Don and Ian as they moved down the block. "You're just jealous. I think they liked me." He was weaving a little more, and his words were becoming thicker, slower.

Ian shot him a cryptic smile. "You can have them. Of course, maybe you like men."

Don had to fight down laughter as Charlie's face fell, and his mouth dropped open. "No way," Charlie said, and he jerked his head around to look back at the supposed women, almost stumbling. Don caught him by the arm, and he swung back around, wearing a stunned expression. "Wow."

A mercifully short four blocks later, they were back at their hotel. Ian headed across the street to wait, while Don ushered Charlie into the building and down to their room. As soon as they were inside, Charlie plopped on the edge of a bed, and ran a hand over his face. "Man," he said, as if in prelude to something else, but he stopped there, swaying slightly, eyes closed.

Don had been about to give him the news that he wasn't going along, but he realized that it probably wouldn't even be necessary. Instead, he pulled off Charlie's shoes, and helped him lie back on the bed. "Here, Chuck," he said, "why don't you lie down for a while?"

He left the room only five minutes later, and Charlie was already out.

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End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 7**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Many thanks to Lilynette, who has been kind enough to offer to check my French. Merci beaucoup, Lilynette!_

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Don found Ian across the street, lounging against a brick wall in the darkness. There was a fair amount of foot traffic there, and they walked until the found a quiet spot and talked over the upcoming meeting. Ian filled Don in on as much as he could about Montreaux's operations.

"I've been inside for weeks now," he said, "and brokering drug deals for several of them. He hasn't let me in on the supply side, though; I've only been working with product once it gets here, trying to find buyers for it. I have no idea at what point in the country it's coming in, or how he's getting it to that point. I know the spooks want Charlie to figure out the new export business that Montreaux is lining up, but the DEA would also like him to figure out the cocaine angle if he can. Montreaux has been playing all of it really close to the vest - I doubt many of his people, other than a trusted handful, really know how it works. Montreaux's Cajun, and so are his closest guys – they're a tight-knit bunch from some little town in the bayou; they go way back. You or I won't even get close to that one. The best we can hope for is to make Montreaux trust us enough to put Charlie in a position where he has access to the information." He glanced at his watch.

Don shook his head. "The more I hear of this, the less I like it. I think we're expecting too much of Charlie. Not the math part – I'm worried about his interaction with this crowd."

Ian's expression was unsympathetic. "What'd you take this assignment for, then?"

Don scowled. "Because Charlie was hell-bent on doing it, and I wasn't letting him go in without me."

Ian's face cleared. "Then I wouldn't worry about it. Charlie _wanting_ to do this is half the battle – he'll do okay. You just worry about keeping your own head on straight. Come on, it's time to head out."

The rendezvous point was about twelve blocks away; they could have walked, but Ian drove. Don approved of that; he'd walked enough already that night, and more importantly, he felt better with a car close by in case anything went wrong. The thought fleetingly crossed his mind that he could screw up the meeting on purpose; if Montreaux didn't make Charlie an offer, the assignment would be over before it began, and they would head home. He had a deep-seated sense of duty, however, that made him throw out the idea as soon as it entered his mind, and he stowed the thought away among his doubts, and pushed them down into the recesses of his brain.

They parked halfway down the block on Conti, and walked to the corner. This section of town was dark and deserted at night, and as they approached the corner, they saw two men break away from a doorway across Chartres, and walk towards them. "That's them," said Ian. "Huh, this is interesting – he sent his top guys to meet you."

One of the men nodded as they drew near, and jerked his head toward a recessed entryway. They congregated there, in the dark shadows. Ian spoke first. "This is the guy I told you about – Don Archer."

"Jean Clemenceau," said one of the other men. "This is my brother, Guy." Both of them were dark, swarthy, thickset, of medium height. Jean's voice was laced with a Cajun accent. He lit a cigarette and took a drag, holding it cupped in his hand.

"I hear you guys want to expand your operations," Don said quietly.

Jean exhaled smoke, and it drifted out in a transparent silver plume against the darkness. "Yeah, we're interested. We got a good distribution goin' here in the South. We would like to expand northward, maybe east."

"My contacts are mainly in St. Louis, and cities north and east of there. Chicago, of course, Minneapolis, Indianapolis, Cleveland, Columbus, Pittsburgh, Buffalo. Got a few in Philly and New York, but that's a tough territory to break into, would require someone with a lot of money, balls, and time. The other cities would be much easier places to start."

"We got plenty of the first two. My boss is not so patient, though. Mebbe we start with one contact as a test, _non_? If we like what we see, we will ask you for more."

Don nodded. "Okay. I hook you up one time; and after that you're on your own – you deal directly with my contact. I won't come back and ask for a percentage – I charge a one-time fee for the connection."

"How much?"

Don shrugged. "It depends on how much you ask me to do to set it up. I can just give you a way to make contact and a recommendation that you're legit, or I can help set up the exchange, even recommend shipping methods and routes. I've got a partner – my brother – he's good at that. If you want the whole thing, it's four hundred grand. If you just want the contact, it's two hundred. Anything in between, we can negotiate."

Jean Clemenceau pursed his lips. "Shit. That's pretty high."

Don shrugged. "It's nothing compared to what you guys'll get for your shipment – or every shipment after that.

Guy Clemenceau spoke up, his voice a low growl. "Where's your brother?"

"He doesn't get involved in the deals," Don replied smoothly. "I only bring him in if we need routes planned. He does legit consulting work on the side – he's pretty busy on his own. He's down here, though, if we need him."

"Okay," said Jean. He looked at Ian. "I take it you got Archer's phone number, Crocker."

Ian had been lounging against the building, dark eyes watching the street. "Yeah, I got it."

Jean looked at Don. "I'll go back and talk to my boss. You figure on a deal for a contact in Columbus – we'll want the whole thing – the routes and all. We use produce trucks to ship – have your brother figure that in. We'll look at your proposal and decide if we want it."

Don felt a nasty twinge in his gut. They wanted Charlie in this, already. "No way," he said. "We don't hand you anything without the money. You can't handle that, I'll go elsewhere." He saw Ian's eyes flicker toward him. He knew his unyielding position was a little risky, but he was betting on them needing a consultant badly enough to accept his conditions. It had nothing to do with his secret hope that they'd reject the offer. At least, that's what he told himself.

Jean Clemenceau shrugged. "I will tell the man. He may not like it. We will let you know." He jerked his head at Guy, said, "_Allons-y_;" then flicked his cigarette on the sidewalk. He pointedly ground it out with his heel as he turned and walked away, Guy behind him.

Don and Ian turned and headed back for the car, and they were almost there before Ian said, "You took a pretty hard line on the terms."

Don's face was impassive. "They would have been suspicious if I caved too easily. We would have been handing them all of Charlie's route planning work for nothing if we did it that way, and they decided not to pay."

Ian grunted, whether in disagreement or confirmation, Don couldn't tell. They drove back to the hotel in silence.

"I'll let you know as soon as I hear," said Ian, as he stopped at the entrance.

Don gave him a nod and got out. It was around midnight; and even though it was a Sunday night, there were still people out and about, bar crawling. He entered the hotel, walked quietly down the hallway and let himself into the room. It was so quiet, for a moment he thought that Charlie was gone and had an attack of anxiety, but then his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see his brother, sprawled in bed, oblivious to the world.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and washed his face. The fluorescent bulb over the sink illuminated his features, accentuating shadows and lines. He looked tired, and stunk of cigarette smoke from the bars. He was reminded sharply of his life during his fugitive recovery days – nights spent in nondescript hotel rooms, too much booze, too much seediness, too much darkness. He didn't want to be here – he thought longingly of home, and of Robin, wishing he was curled up by her side. This city – the dark side of it that they were dealing with – was no place for him, and especially not for Charlie. Charlie had never been a part of that world, and Don didn't belong there anymore, either. He shut off the light, and trudged toward his bed.

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Jack Montreaux sat back in his chair, and studied the men around him. "Well?" He looked at his cousin, Pierre Montreaux, who cleared his throat.

"Their background checks out. Records indicate that they were born in Michigan, but grew up in Chicago. They both have apartments there. No police records – the only thing we found was a speeding ticket on the younger one about two years ago in Cook County, Illinois." Pierre's voice was nasal, with a Canadian twang; he was from a branch of the Montreaux family that had settled near Toronto. He was a thin man with a hatchet face, and a prominent Adam's apple.

"So they're careful," said Montreaux, with approval. "Good."

"I followed 'em tonight. The older brother, Don, was checking things out, scoping out dealer territories around the quarter – carefully, though. They went barhopping, and Crocker met them along the way. I think the younger one's a little bit of a party-boy, looked a little wasted when he came out of the last bar."

Jean Clemenceau grunted. "That's probably why he wasn't there when we met tonight."

Montreaux's gaze shifted to Jean, who had already told him about the meeting. "So what do you think?"

Jean shrugged, glanced at Guy. "If Crocker recommended them, they are probably all right. We know Crocker's okay - if he was a plant, the cops would have had us weeks ago, _pas vrai?_ Fuckin' Archer has balls; I'll say that – he's askin' enough for their services."

Montreaux nodded. "_Oui._ Here is the thing; if we want to use the brother for our export job, we don't have much time. We take their offer; have the younger one – what was his name? – Charlie - do the programming for the drug route; see how good he is. Under no circumstances do we ever talk drugs to them – we are shipping produce. That way, we can run the stuff all the way up to Columbus, even make contact with Archer's dealer before we make up our mind to take the final step. If we smell something fishy, we don't go through with it. If we do it and it goes well, we offer Charlie the export programming job, and we can also try out some more of Don Archer's contacts. In the meantime, we observe them; maybe give Don some local jobs while his brother works on the program. I know they look okay, but there is much at stake, _non_? We must be careful."

The other men nodded, and Montreaux rose and retrieved a bottle, pouring them a round of shots. He lifted his glass, and his lips curved in a smile. "To new business partners. _Et à vôtre santé_. "

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Charlie stirred as light flooded the room along with the dry rattle of draperies being pulled on a metal rod, and groaned. He opened his eyes a crack; wincing at the light streaming through the sheers. From the window, his brother regarded him. Don was already dressed, and holding a cup of coffee from the hotel lobby. "We need to get moving, Chuck."

Charlie's face contorted into a frown, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning on one arm, rubbing his free hand over his face. "The last thing I remember was lying down for a nap." His head jerked up suddenly, a startled look coming over his face. The sudden movement made him wince a little. "What about the meeting?"

"We had it," said Don. "Come on, get dressed. I've got the perfect remedy for your hangover – the Café du Monde – we'll talk as we walk."

"We have to walk?" groaned Charlie, but he pulled himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, he was showered and dressed. His curly hair was only half-dry, and Charlie hadn't bothered to shave, which left him with a significant amount of dark stubble, but it suited his cover, Don thought to himself. At a glance, a stranger would think Charlie more street-wise than Don; an illusion that would vanish as soon as they observed Charlie's facial expressions and heard him talk. Still, every little bit of illusion helped.

It was about eight in the morning, and the traffic on the streets had transitioned from partiers to working people, on their way to jobs in the shops and restaurants. The sidewalks were more sparsely populated, and Don took advantage of breaks in the stream of pedestrians to tell Charlie what had happened the evening before. He'd slipped back into character, Charlie noticed, as soon as he exited the hotel. The bland look of indifference made his real emotions hard to read.

"Ian and I met with two of Montreaux's guys last night – last name of Clemenceau, first names Jean and Guy. Ian tells me that Montreaux's from some little town in the bayou, and he has a small close group of Cajun buddies, and Montreaux doesn't disclose too much to anyone outside of them. The Clemenceau brothers are part of that group. They said they were interested in trying out a contact in the Columbus area."

Charlie's eyes widened. "So you're in."

"On a trial basis, yes." They crossed a street, and turned down Decatur, and Don waited until they navigated past another group of pedestrians before continuing. "So are you."

Charlie stared at him. "What? Already?"

"They want you to develop a shipping plan for them. At least that was their initial request – they balked at the price I gave them, said they were going to have to take it back to Montreaux. We're still waiting to hear from them. I called Joe Bishop this morning, told him that we were possibly going to need to set up a transaction in Columbus. He was going to get that word to our people."

Charlie had fallen silent, and Don glanced at him. His younger brother looked pale, somber. "It's not too late to back out, Charlie," he said softly.

Charlie looked back up at him, with a surprised expression. "No – I wouldn't consider that. I'm in. It's just – I don't feel so well." Truthfully, now that contact was imminent, he was getting an attack of butterflies, but he wasn't about to admit that.

Don paused at a glass-and-metal door. "I've got just the thing for that." He held the door open, ushering Charlie inside.

The Café du Monde was a New Orleans landmark, dating back to the 1800s. The décor was utilitarian, diner-style, no frills. Don directed Charlie to grab a table, and he went to the counter, returning with two large steaming mugs and two paper containers on a tray, each containing three powdered sugar-covered pastries.

Charlie raised an eyebrow as Don set a mug of caramel colored liquid in front of him. "What's this?"

"Café au lait," returned Don taking a sip from his mug. "Half dark roast, half hot milk. Those are beignets. They're kind of like square doughnuts, without the hole, only lighter. Sure-fire cure for a hangover."

Charlie took a sip of the warm liquid, and closed his eyes gratefully as it slid down his throat. He blinked, and eyed the pastries dubiously, but he picked one up and took a bite, licking the powdered sugar from his upper lip. It was warm, fresh; not too sweet – in fact, most of the sweetness was provided by the powdered sugar coating. After a couple more bites and half a mug of coffee, he could feel his headache residing, and his stomach starting to calm. He looked across the table at Don, who had wolfed down his dish of pastries, and was considering another. "Thanks – this was just what I needed. I don't know what happened last night – one minute I was fine, and the next, I was out of it."

Don smiled weakly. He was tempted to admit to Charlie what they'd done, but he reconsidered. The last thing he needed in their current situation was to erode Charlie's trust in him. Instead, he simply said, "Ian tells me those Hurricanes are pretty strong."

Charlie sighed and shook his head. "Yeah, it tasted strong, although there were a couple of college kids who were sucking them down, no problem. I must be out of practice." He grinned ruefully. "I guess it's been awhile since my college days."

Don took another drink from his mug to hide the guilt that he felt certain was on his face. "I have to admit, I never pictured you at a frat party."

Charlie's grin deepened. "Well, obviously I didn't do much during my undergrad years; I was underage. But eventually I made a keg party or two."

He took another sip of his coffee, and Don eyed him. His brother looked far more youthful than his 33 years, and could still pass for a grad student. He felt a sudden feeling of wistfulness – a sense of loss for all of the years they'd been out of touch, for all of the things they still didn't know about each other.

'_That's gonna change_,' Don told himself. '_When this is over, when we go back home, it'll be different_.'

He had no inkling of how right he would be – and how horribly wrong.

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The call came an hour later. After breakfast, Charlie called Amita; then they had strolled down to the Mississippi, which at that point was a huge expanse of brown, rolling water; the flat surface belying the power of the currents that swirled through it as it passed the final confines of land on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Don's phone vibrated, and he flipped it open. "Yeah."

Charlie made a mental note to himself – that was a good way to answer the phone. There would be no slip-up with a name, like he had made the day before with Amita, and it sounded so much more worldly than "hello."

He saw a flicker of tension in Don's face, and then his brother said, "When?" Another pause. "Are you sure Charlie needs to be there?"

Charlie felt his heart leap, twisting in mingled anticipation and anxiety; and he swallowed as Don's gaze met his.

"Okay," said Don. "We'll be there in twenty minutes." He flipped the phone shut, his jaw tight. "We need to get back to the hotel. Ian's gonna pick us up. Montreaux wants to meet us."

He turned and began walking. Charlie swallowed; his mouth suddenly dry, and for a panicked instant, wondered if it was too late to back out. He knew the answer to that already, he thought, shaking himself mentally. Like the flotsam on the river, they were caught in a current of events, and it was too late now to fight it. He shot one more glance at the cold brown moving mass of water behind him, rolling inexorably toward the Gulf, and hurried after his brother.

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End Chapter 7

Translations:

_Allons-y_: let's go

_pas vrai?_ is that not so?

_Et à vôtre santé: Cheers! __(And to your health_)


	8. Chapter 8

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 8**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_Thanks for the reviews, all. I am humbly grateful. _

……………………………………………

Don glanced in the passenger side mirror of Ian's SUV, and caught a glimpse of Charlie's face as his brother stared out the rear window. He looked a bit green, and Don knew that it wasn't entirely due to his hangover. He was feeling a little queasy, himself. This was moving more quickly than they had anticipated.

His gaze shifted out the window as Ian tooled the vehicle down St. Charles Avenue. The street was lined with large southern live oaks and stately buildings; former residences of wealthy members of antebellum society. Many of the estates had been converted into hotels, upscale condominiums; one even into a library. A few of the mansions, however, still housed the affluent. Montreaux's home was one of those.

Ian turned into a driveway and pulled up to an intercom, rolling down his window. "Crocker and guests," he stated, after pushing a button to activate the speaker, and the wrought iron gates in front of them swung open. Ian directed the SUV through them and pulled down the drive through a row of hedges to a parking area toward the rear of the building, bypassing the circular drive that swept around to the front of the house. That drive led to the ornate front entrance, and was for important visitors, legitimate guests – not for shady business associates. The Greek revival mansion loomed over them as they passed; pillared, solid, imposing.

They were let in a side door by a dark, square man in a bad suit, who did little to conceal the bulky piece under his jacket. Charlie thought he saw a flicker of recognition in Don's eyes when he looked at the man, and so he took another look himself, wondering if it was one of the men whom Don had met with the prior evening. A second man politely requested that they turn over any weapons, but did not search them. Don impassively handed over the new Glock he'd been given, the permit issued under the name of Don Archer. Charlie glanced back at him, and saw that 'undercover Don' was on full display; his face relaxed, cool, unflustered. Ian too, looked calm, at ease. Charlie took in a deep breath and relaxed his own features, his shoulders, and followed his escorts down the hallway.

An antique elevator took them past the first floor to the second, and they were ushered down another hallway and into a large office. The stocky man held the door open for them, and Charlie walked in behind Don with a thumping heart, noting that there were at least six other men in the room. As he stepped around Don to stand beside him, he found himself facing a man holding court behind a huge mahogany desk.

Ian had stepped forward, and he indicated Don and Charlie with a wave of his hand – the gesture not quite indolent, but not unduly respectful either. Charlie took note – fawning in front of these men, trying too hard to curry favor, would not be respected here. He needed to be like Don and Ian – cool, self-contained.

"Jack," said Ian, his voice sounding more respectful than his body language would have indicated, "this is Don and Charlie Archer – the consultants I told you about."

Montreaux rose and buttoned his Italian suit jacket; then came around his desk, hand extended, first to Don, then to Charlie. He was about Don's height, with broad shoulders, dark hair flecked the tiniest bit of gray at the temples, and black, glittering sharp eyes. His grip was firm, his voice laced with a Cajun accent. "Ah, _mes amies_, thank you for coming. Jean and Guy tell me that you have a business proposal that may interest us." His eyes rested on Charlie for a moment. Charlie looked back into them resolutely.

Don inclined his head. "Yes. I imagine they gave you our basic offerings and prices."

Montreaux's gaze flickered toward Don. "Yes," he said smoothly. "I understand you rejected our request to see the product before payment."

Don's lip curled, almost imperceptibly. "Standard terms. You are a businessman; I'm sure you understand."

Montreaux inclined his head in return. "And I am certain you understand my wish to examine what I will be paying for. I have a counter-proposal for you. Half now, half after I see the shipping plans. To show good faith, you can retain the name of your contact until you receive full payment."

Don exchanged a glance with Charlie. "I think we can agree to that."

"Good," said Montreaux, turning and moving back behind his desk. "I would like you to begin work immediately." He smiled; the expression was warm, but his eyes remained sharp. "If you don't mind, I would prefer to dispense with formalities, and use first names – it is so much easier, _non_? You may call me Jack." He looked at Charlie. "Charlie, we have a work area that I think you will find quite conducive to your needs, with state-of-the-art computers."

"Thank you, but I have my own," replied Charlie quickly. "All I need is a secure way to patch into your system. I can work remotely."

"Ah, _mais non_; that we cannot do," replied Montreaux, smiling apologetically. "All work must stay on my premises. You understand. Trust me, you will enjoy it here – we are like family." His gaze shifted to Don. "Don, while your brother is working, I have some pending deals in the local area that you may be interested in evaluating. If you wish, you may work along with Ian. You might establish some contacts that you will find beneficial."

"I appreciate the opportunity. You are very generous," Don murmured.

Montreaux waved a hand. "_Ce n'était rien. _If things go well, I expect we will have a long and prosperous relationship." His eyes hardened and bored into Don's. "Of course, I expect the utmost honestly and loyalty from my people and from those with whom I do business. If I suspect anything otherwise, there will be consequences. _Comprenez-vous_?"

Don's voice was just as hard. "Yes. We understand, and expect the same in return."

Montreaux's icy expression melted, and he beamed. "_Mais oui!"_ he exclaimed. "I expect we will get along very well." He turned to the thin man. "Pierre, you will show Charlie to his work area." His gaze shifted to take in the others. "Ian, Guy, Jean, you will include Don in your dealings in the Garden District." He turned back to Don and Charlie. "Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I would also like to extend an invitation to dinner for this evening."

"That's not necessary, but thank you," replied Don.

Montreaux smiled. "I insist. As I said, we are like family, here. We work together; we play together. There is no better way to get to know one's associates, is there not?"

Charlie spoke suddenly, unexpectedly. "Of course not," he said, and looked at Don steadily, then back at Montreaux. "We're looking forward to it."

"_Très bien,"_ murmured Montreaux, softly, smiling. "_Très bien_."

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Don walked across the back drive toward Ian's SUV, his gut in a knot. He hadn't expected things to move so quickly; hadn't dreamed that within twenty-four hours of their arrival that Charlie would be inside, already on Montreaux's computer systems, already working. Granted, Charlie was simply working the cocaine angle; Montreaux had given no indication that he wanted anything else, but if this job worked out to the man's satisfaction, Don had no doubt that Montreaux would extend the offer for the export system also. It was moving fast – too fast; they had hardly had a chance to get acclimated, to set contingency plans. Charlie seemed to be taking the developments in stride, however; Don knew that his brother's calm acceptance of the dinner invitation had been Charlie's way of trying to reassure him. Still, the sight of his brother walking down the hallway between two men, on his way deeper into the bowels of Montreaux's home, was enough to make Don to want to call it all off, right then and there.

He climbed into the SUV and shut the door, and had opened his mouth to speak when Ian held up a finger; indicating silence. Don frowned, but he stayed quiet as Ian outlined a plan to visit some business associates in the Garden District. A few blocks later, Ian pulled over in front of a cafe and felt under the dash in front of Don, gripped something and pulled it out for Don to see – an electronic listening device – and then replaced it. Don's heart lurched. A bug. Had it been there all along? He searched his memory frantically, trying to remember if they'd said anything incriminating in the vehicle.

Ian looked at Don. "I need a coffee," he said. "You want one?"

"Yeah." The word came out hoarsely, and Don numbly slid from the vehicle and met Ian on the sidewalk, his heart still pounding, his thoughts racing.

"Relax," said Ian. "They just put it there this morning while we were inside. They did that to me when I started, weeks ago – that's how I knew to look for it. After they were satisfied I was clean, they took it out. I'm leaving it there, but we'll have to be careful about what we say when we're in the vehicle. I'm betting they've got them in your rental car and the hotel room by now, too. We'll just have to take our conversations out on the street."

He looked up the street, then back at Don. "You need to chill."

Don took a deep breath. "I just didn't think he'd end up in there by himself."

Ian grimaced slightly. "Montreaux's no dummy. He separated you on purpose, and I'm sure he got the impression that you're the harder nut to crack, so he's gonna work on Charlie. He'll try and test him." He looked at Don sympathetically and shrugged. "Charlie'll be okay. You saw him – he was cool as a cucumber. C'mon, I'm buying – but you're getting decaf."

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The thin man, who had been introduced as Pierre Montreaux, had missed his calling, Charlie thought to himself. He should have been a tour guide. In spite of his French name, his accent was not as pronounced; and it wasn't Southern either; it actually sounded Canadian. As Charlie was led through the house, Pierre gave him a lecture, proudly showing him the rooms as they passed. "The house was built in 1887 on a man-made slope," he said, as they passed. "The front of the house is two stories, but in back the slope allows for a third floor. That was the floor you came in on. Mr. Montreaux's study is on the second floor, along with the bedrooms. Also on that floor, he converted one wing of bedrooms into a private party area for smaller groups – very plush, let me tell you. When you come in the first floor from the front, you're in the grand foyer, and to your right is the dining room, the bar, and the grand ballroom. We're on that floor on the left side of the house now, which holds the library and the offices, including the computer room where you'll be working. The kitchen is in the back of the house, on the bottom floor, along with an informal dining area. They use a dumbwaiter to send food up to the first floor dining room when there's a party."

They had arrived at the last door on the right side of the hallway, and Pierre opened it, revealing the work area. It was a large, high-ceilinged room anchored by a parquet floor, which was adorned with Oriental carpets. It had tall narrow windows covered with thick draperies, and contained six desks, five of them containing desktop computers. "We have our own server," Pierre said proudly. "The computers are linked to it, and so are other computers that Montreaux has at other locations. We got a nice system going here – I think you'll like it. Here – this desk is yours while you're working here."

He indicated a desk, and Charlie stepped next to it. Pierre looked at two other men working in the room. "Guys, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Max and Mike – they're our resident computer experts. Charlie's gonna be working here for a while. Mike, you need to show him our delivery system – inside only, like we talked about."

The man named Mike nodded indifferently and clicked away at his keyboard. "I'll be with you in a minute," he said.

Pierre looked at Charlie. "Have a seat. I'll check back later." He turned and walked briskly from the room.

Charlie sank into a chair behind the desk, and took a deep breath.

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It was one of the longest days that Don could remember. Ian introduced him to several clients and they discussed deals possibly involving Don's contacts, although Don noticed that all of them were very careful not to specify what the product was in their conversation. It made him realize that although Montreaux had let them in, he still didn't trust them entirely; they were still being tested. It made him wonder what tests were being given to his brother, and how Charlie was doing with them.

In January, darkness came early, and the sky was already black when they arrived back at Montreaux's estate, although it was not even seven yet. Don forced himself to look composed, almost uninterested, as he strolled toward the house, although his insides were in a knot. They were led to a room off the first floor hall, a bar next to the dining room, and as the door opened, Don scanned the room quickly. Pierre Montreaux and the Clemenceaus were there, but no Charlie.

Montreaux approached them, and waved an arm toward the bar. "Come," he said, "have a drink before dinner." As they drew near to the bar, Montreaux waved at the bartender. "I have a fine whiskey that you should try. Neat, or rocks?"

"Rocks, thank you," murmured Don, and Ian accepted the same.

"Your brother is still working," said Montreaux with a smile. "He appears to be – how shall I say it – intense."

Don allowed one corner of his mouth to lift into a smile. He felt a slight wave of relief at Montreaux's statement, but he'd feel better when he saw Charlie for himself. "That's Charlie. He can get pretty involved in his work."

Montreaux smiled. "I never underrate work ethic. Although I sent for him – I imagine he needs a break."

Pierre Montreaux smirked. "I can tell you Max and Mike do. He's giving them a run for their money."

Montreaux threw back his head and laughed. "Good for Charlie." His eyes darted toward the doorway, and he smiled. "Ah, here is the taskmaster himself."

Don turned to see Charlie entering with two other men behind him, both in their late thirties, both with medium builds, both wearing casual clothing – button shirts, with the shirttails out. One sported wire rimmed glasses, and they looked and dressed like clerks – or computer techs. Charlie caught his eye as he came through the door; he looked tired and still a bit pale, but seemed relatively at ease. He was still wearing his denim jacket, as was Don, but Montreaux had shed his suit jacket for a sporty-looking pullover, so casual dress seemed to be acceptable for dinner.

Montreaux clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder as he came up to them. "I hear you have been working my men too hard," he exclaimed with a jovial smile, and a sharp glance at the two men. They smiled back, but the one who was introduced as Mike had a slight bitterness in his expression; Don surmised that he didn't enjoy being shown up by a stranger.

"We made some good progress," said Charlie, as he accepted a glass of whiskey. "I optimized the routes that you were using through the Southern stops to gain efficiency, and next I'll overlay the plan for the Columbus route. To minimize risk, we'll have a second smaller truck start out after the first, which will transfer product to your produce truck just after it crosses the state lines. That way, you won't have your entire shipment on one truck, and you can deplete your stock of "produce," on the first truck prior to getting to the weigh station at the state borders. That will reduce risk from random cargo inspections. We're bringing the smaller truck in on back roads so it can bypass the weigh stations entirely. We should be done early tomorrow."

Jean Clemenceau sidled up to Mike Hamill, who had moved toward the bar as Charlie spoke to Montreaux. "Is he as good as he sounds?"

Mike took a disgusted swig of his drink. "He's a freak. It took us weeks to figure the drop points, and it took him two hours to figure out we could have done it better."

Clemenceau grinned wolfishly. "Sounds like you better get your ass in gear, or you'll be out of a job."

Mike snorted and scowled, and tossed down the rest of his drink.

Don stood listening to Charlie silently, watching Montreaux between sips of his drink. The whisky was smooth, icy, yet warmed as it went down. Montreaux seemed impressed and pleased, but there was still a sharpness to his eyes, a watchfulness about him. They had a way to go before Montreaux would trust them implicitly, but Charlie had made a positive impression. It was a good start, and it seemed that Charlie was handling his role effortlessly.

Montreaux broke off suddenly, and looked toward the door. "Ah, there are the ladies."

Two women had appeared at the door, along with three other men, and Ian sidled next to Don and murmured, "Those folks are regulars here at Montreaux's parties. A couple of them stay here – that dark haired man, and the blonde."

He needn't have pointed out the blonde – she eclipsed everyone in the room. She was easily six-three, and had a body so voluptuous it bordered on obscene. She was outrageously beautiful, and would have been a head-turner at any size, but her height and her curves amplified the effect. Charlie was staring at her with his mouth open, and Ian grinned a little at his expression.

Montreaux stepped forward and bussed the ladies on their cheeks. "Ah _chéries_, so good to see you." He turned and looked at Charlie and Don. "Gentlemen, please meet Macy Lee –," he indicated a dark haired woman who was striking in her own right, but who was completely outdone by the blonde, "- and Charlotte Sumner." Charlotte, the blonde, dimpled at them. He went on, introducing the men with the women, and then said, "And this is Don and Charlie Archer, new business associates."

Charlie had managed to close his mouth and conjure up a polite smile, but he flushed to the roots of his hair as Charlotte sashayed over to him. In her heels, she was a good head taller than him, and her well-endowed chest ended up nearly at his eye level. In spite of the underlying tension, Don couldn't help but grin as Ian muttered, "Talk about your deer in the headlights."

Montreaux had moved toward them and picked up the comment, and added slyly, "And those are some headlights, _non_?" The three of them dissolved in laughter, and Don could feel some of his anxiety dissipating. In spite of Don's wariness, Montreaux was making them feel like welcome guests.

Charlotte flashed them a gorgeous smile over Charlie's head, and Don got the impression that she knew exactly what they were talking about. "Jack, you've been holdin' out on me," she cooed, in a smooth Southern accent, looking down at Charlie, who appeared increasingly uncomfortable. "This one's adorable." She cocked her head, placed a manicured nail coquettishly between her teeth. "And which one are you, honey, Charlie, or Don?"

"Charlie," he managed, and she smiled. Charlie blinked.

"Come on, Charlie," she said, hooking her arm through his, and steering him toward the dining room. "You're my escort tonight."

Charlie sent a wide-eyed look over his shoulder that set Montreaux to chuckling, and he turned to Don and Ian. "Come gentlemen. Dinner is served."

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End Chapter 8

Translations:

_Ce n'était rien:_ It is nothing.

_Comprenez-vous_? Do you understand?

_Mais oui!_ Of course! (literally, 'but yes!')


	9. Chapter 9

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 9**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks to all for the alerts and reviews. I have a present for you - a bonus chapter to tide you over until Friday. _

……………………………………………

The meal was relatively uneventful, although Charlie looked uncomfortable with Charlotte's attention - she flirted with him blatantly during the entire dinner. Although it was served in the formal dining room, it was a relatively casual affair. The group seemed close-knit, laughing and joking. If they hadn't been criminals, if he hadn't needed to stay on his guard, Don would have enjoyed the evening. He was under no delusion, however, that Montreaux had accepted them unconditionally. As he, Charlie and Ian stepped out into the back driveway after dinner, he moved next to Charlie. "The car's bugged – don't talk," he murmured.

Charlie stared at him, but said nothing.

They pulled out through the gates and headed back down St. Charles toward the French Quarter, and as they drew closer, Ian said, "Let's stop for a drink."

Charlie made a face. "Let's not," he said, but Don turned and gave him a look, so he shut his mouth.

"Just a nightcap," said Ian easily. "I like this place."

He found a parking place on the street, and they headed into a small smoky bar simply named 'Fish,' for an unknown reason. They got a table in the corner, away from the acoustic guitarist and the accordion player, who were providing the crowd with a lively Acadian number.

As they settled into their chairs, Ian leaned forward towards Charlie. "My SUV is bugged – they did that to me when I first started working with them. Your room and your car are probably bugged also – if we want to talk, we need to do it somewhere else. That's why we're here."

Charlie frowned. "I thought it seemed like they had accepted us."

Don shook his head. "Not yet, Charlie – the bug is obvious evidence of that. We're still being watched, and they're still going to test us. Did they ever once mention drugs today to you?"

Realization dawned on Charlie's face. "No – they kept referring to it as 'produce.' I knew they meant drugs, and after awhile I didn't give it a second thought."

"They actually do that somewhat out of habit," said Ian. "It's so Montreaux can deny culpability. If any of his people ever are caught; if anyone ever records a conversation, he can maintain that he had no knowledge that drugs were involved. They loosened up with me after a couple of successful deals, but I don't think they'll be really open about the cocaine until we get Don's first deal closed in Columbus. That's part of the test."

He broke off as a waitress appeared, and he and Don ordered beers. Charlie opted for water. "Alcohol is the last thing I want after last night," he muttered. "I thought I was going to choke on that glass of whiskey at dinner."

Ian grinned. "And I thought it was Miss Charlotte who was making you look that way."

Charlie flushed to the roots of his hair. "Is she – real?"

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Real?"

"I mean – she's not a 'he,' right?"

Ian threw back his head and laughed. "Trust me Charlie, Charlotte's all woman. You should see her in a bikini."

Charlie looked relieved. "Well, after those ladies we met last night, I wasn't sure. She _is_ pretty tall."

Don was grinning at him, slyly. "I'd say she took a shine to you."

Charlie's blush deepened, and Don took pity on him, instead looking at Ian. "And when did you get to see her in a bikini?"

The waitress set down their drinks, and Ian took a swig from his bottle, waiting until she departed. "On Montreaux's yacht. Actually, I heard him say he might take it out later this week – we're supposed to get an unseasonably warm spell, starting tomorrow. Don't be surprised if you get an invitation. He's having a small party on Friday – he may ask you to that, too." He looked at Charlie. "If he asks, you can bet that those will be tests, also. He likes to watch people interact, and he uses the social settings to get people to relax, let down their guard. You may think he's just being friendly, but trust me, he'll be evaluating you."

Don looked at Charlie. "How'd it go today?"

"Pretty good, I think. I thought it was going to be hard, acting all day, but it was actually easier than I thought. It was like doing any other consulting job. They really do ship the drugs throughout the South in produce trucks, and they make legitimate stops at grocers and markets to deliver the real produce. The cocaine drops are done in the larger cities- their code produce name for it is 'pomegranate.' Most of the produce is imported from South America – grapes from Chile, for example, and I bet that they're bringing the cocaine into the country with it, but I haven't had a chance to try to dig into their system yet and figure out that part of the smuggling scheme. The guy named Mike was hanging over my shoulder the entire time."

Ian nodded. "No one was expecting you to get that on the first day. If Montreaux offers you the export job, you'll probably get additional access to their systems and not have to worry so much about surveillance from Mike. You're doing a good job, Charlie."

Charlie grinned modestly at the compliment, and shot a glance toward Don. Don could see the look in his eyes, the quest for approval, but he said nothing, just gave a short nod and took a drink of his beer. The fact was, Charlie's relative success today had sealed the deal – they were still in the game, and Don wasn't sure it was somewhere he wanted them to be.

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The week hurtled by. The next day, Charlie had finished the program by eleven in the morning, and Montreaux had decided to celebrate by taking out the boat. They had driven to the marina and set off on a monstrous yacht into a sunny afternoon and temperatures that trended upward of eighty degrees. The breeze generated by the yacht's movement was still somewhat cool, but after they had anchored off a small island in the Gulf and the breeze had diminished, the sun made it actually seem hot. It was a far cry from the previous cool rainy Sunday; New Orleans weather was as unpredictable as the city itself.

The crowd included the group that was at dinner the previous evening, plus a few others. Alcohol flowed freely, and from time to time, a few people would quietly make their way down into the boat's interior. When they returned, it was apparent that they were high on some kind of stimulant, most likely cocaine. Montreaux's friends obviously lived life on the edge, like the man himself, although Don noticed that he didn't participate in the below-deck excursions. He imagined Montreaux got his high from his business dealings – from the adrenaline rush of managing risky ventures right under the noses of the police and the Coast Guard.

Charlie tried to keep a low profile; Don noticed he always had a drink in his hand for appearances sake, but he was nursing it, making sure he kept a level head. Still, he managed to provide the highlight of the afternoon, thanks to Charlotte. She pranced around in platform espadrilles and a string bikini that left little to the imagination, and Ian was right, she was most decidedly all woman. She fawned over Charlie, teasing, flirting, tossing her mane of blonde hair, and at one point stood right behind him and called his name, and when he turned, pulled his head right into her ample bosom. Charlie came out sputtering, much to the delight of the crowd, and Montreaux roared. When he had finished wiping the tears from his eyes, he threw an arm around Charlie in a show of affection, still laughing. Charlie, it appeared, had become the group's unofficial mascot, and Montreaux's new favorite. Don, however, remained skeptical. Part of Montreaux's genial behavior, he was sure, was the man's natural personality, but part of it was show, there to mask the other side of the man – the side that wouldn't hesitate to remove his enemies.

He found that Charlie wasn't the only one who was getting attention, the brunette, Macy, had attached herself to Don. She was much more understated than Charlotte, but a seductress in her own quiet way, with dark smoky eyes that were mesmerizing after a drink or two. Don had no doubt that Montreaux had told the women to befriend them, to get them let to down their guard. No one here was to be trusted, except Ian, and the mysterious Agent 1. Don spent the better part of the day on the yacht looking over the crowd to determine who that might be, and had settled on one of the men who had shown up at dinner the night before, named Mark Jannison. He hung with the blow crowd, but Don noticed that he didn't make the trips downstairs that the others in that bunch were taking, and he had almost no accent – he was obviously not a native of New Orleans.

Montreaux wasted no time in trying out Charlie's shipping plan and setting up a buy with Don's contact in Columbus. The trucks were dispatched that night, which was Tuesday, and the 'produce' delivery was scheduled to arrive in Columbus on Friday. For the remainder of the week, Charlie was left to twiddle his thumbs at the hotel, and to wander the French Quarter; Montreaux wouldn't give him another task until he'd had a chance to assure himself that the Archer men could be trusted. That wouldn't happen until the buy in Columbus had actually gone down.

Don felt hugely relieved that the pressure was off Charlie, at least temporarily, but he was too busy to think about it much; he was involved in the daily dealings of local drug transactions with Ian and the Clemenceau brothers. Montreaux made a lot of money from those alone, and Don suspected his out-of-state dealings were just as lucrative. He noticed that the Clemenceau brothers never stated that they were representing Montreaux, and they never involved themselves in actual drug deals, no matter how large. Instead, they met with men who controlled various territories, trying to make deals at the top levels. The actual deliveries and buys were carried out by underlings, who had no idea for whom they were working. Don was now working the top deals, along with Ian and the Clemenceaus, spending long hours away from Charlie, which bothered him – he liked knowing what Charlie was doing, knowing that he was safe. His only consolation was that Charlie was out of the picture, at least for the time being.

On Friday, that changed.

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Don and Ian had just finished a meeting with a prospective client, a local gang leader named Blinkie. In spite of the ridiculous name, the man was powerful, and Montreaux had been trying to become the source for Blinkie's territory for two years. Don's dealings with L.A. gang members were apparently paying off; he had established a sort of rapport with the man, and Blinkie had agreed to meet and listen to a proposal, if Don presented it. Don had just finished delivering the proposal to him at a riverside warehouse, and as he and Ian stepped out of the warehouse onto the street, Ian's phone rang. "Yeah," he said, then after a short pause, his eyes met Don's. "That's great to hear. Yeah, we'll be there."

He hung up and looked at Don. "I think we're in," he said quietly. "That was Montreaux himself. He said the deal went down in Columbus today as planned, and the contact put in an even larger order. He's extremely pleased, said he wants you and Charlie there in an hour – wants to talk more business." Ian's normally unrevealing dark eyes flashed with excitement. "This could be it – the offer for the export routes."

They parked in the parking garage down the block from the hotel, and Don had Charlie meet them there. He and Ian had found a small office off the first floor stairwell that had once been used by the operator of the garage. The garage had since been sold to another, larger operator who had central office space, and the office had been locked up. Ian had managed to get a key made for the metal door, and they had used the room twice for quick, private communications, especially when they needed to contact their handler, Joe Bishop. Charlie was waiting there when they arrived, and Ian glanced around quickly to be sure no one could see them; then unlocked the door.

"I need to get you guys keys for this place," he muttered, as he closed the door softly behind them and flicked on the light. The room was tiny and dingy, with a linoleum floor, two file cabinets, and a gray metal desk. Charlie stood next to the desk, watching as Don brought up Joe Bishop's number on his cell phone and put his phone on speaker.

"What's going on?" Charlie asked; his eyes dark with excitement and apprehension. After the thrill of his initial two days of work, the last two had been a letdown, and he had spent them chafing, utterly bored.

Joe Bishop's voice came on the line, and Don spoke into the phone, but he directed his eyes at Charlie. "I'd like to book a flight on Tran Air."

Joe's voice came over the speaker. "Archer."

"Yeah. I've got Charlie and Ian with me."

Ian spoke up. "We got a call this afternoon. The deal went down in Columbus as planned – our man is extremely pleased. He's calling Don and Charlie in to discuss further opportunities – we need to be there in less than an hour. We just wanted to give you a quick update – we'll give you more as soon as we know."

"Good," returned Bishop. "I'll pass that on to Washington. Things are moving more quickly than we thought – they'll be glad to hear this."

"We've got to go," said Ian. "Tell your guy in Columbus nice job with the buy – they apparently were completely convinced."

"You got it."

Don flipped the phone shut, and Charlie looked at them. "What opportunities?"

Ian turned for the door. "That's what we're about to find out." He opened it a crack, and finding the hallway clear, motioned for them to follow.

A half hour later, they found themselves in Montreaux's study. The Clemenceau brothers, Jean and Guy, were there; and had parked their squat torsos in chairs at the back of the room. Montreaux seemed in a formal mood; he shook Charlie and Don's hands, and motioned for the two of them to sit. Ian drifted quietly to the side, and leaned against a wall.

"I understand from my men that the deal was made in Columbus today with no problems, and that all drops were made en route. We delivered more shipment in less time, with less risk, on this trip than any before. I must say, I am pleased – pleased with your planning, Charlie, and the opportunities provided by your contact, Don. I want to thank you personally, and if you check your account, you will find that the payment we agreed upon has been made. I would also like to inform you that this brings the chance for further opportunities for both of you. I have a job pending that I would like you to look at Charlie, and Don, I am interested in further deals with your contacts. I have no idea of your length of stay here, but I would like you to consider extending it."

Montreaux paused and smiled, and Don glanced at Charlie. It struck him suddenly that his brother looked thinner, tired. Don had to admit, Charlie had been handling himself well, far better than he would have guessed, but he also could see that a week of stress had been wearing on him – he imagined that Charlie was beginning to understand that undercover work was draining at best, and had the potential to damage one's sense of self, at worst. Montreaux had begun speaking again, and Don turned his attention to him.

"The details of our business, however, will wait for tomorrow morning. Tonight, we celebrate. I am having a party this evening – a rather large gathering in the ballroom, and for my inner circle, a smaller gathering in my private quarters. I would be extremely pleased if you both would attend."

"We wouldn't miss it," said Don. "Thank you – and we appreciate your business. We are most certainly interested in future opportunities."

Montreaux smiled. "Excellent." His eyes flickered to Ian. "Ian, I am indebted to you for your recommendation."

"My pleasure," said Ian. "I gather it will be the usual dress code for this evening? The Archers may need to find evening wear."

"Ah, of course!" exclaimed Montreaux. "I will have my personal assistant see to it." He rose, smiling. "Dinner is at eight, gentlemen, and again, I thank you. This marks the beginning of a very profitable arrangement for all of us."

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Moments later, the door closed, and Montreaux sat in silence for a moment, reflectively. Only Guy and Jean were left in the room, and Jean cleared his throat. "So you are convinced we can trust them?"

Montreaux sighed. "I must admit, I have a feeling of trepidation, of _inquiétude_. I cannot, however, think that they are anything other than who they say they are – there has been no mistake, they are consistent. Mike tells me they have said nothing out of place when he monitors their conversation through the bugs. Still, there is something…"

"I agree," said Guy. "They're both too freakin' straight."

Montreaux nodded. "The younger one, especially. They are sharp businessmen, they _should_ be responsible – I would not trust a drinker or a cokehead with business of this magnitude, but still, I know what you are saying. For men who are breaking the law, they seem too law-abiding in their personal lives. They seem to have no interest in the girls, no interest in even an occasional hit, and barely touch the liquor. I do not wholly trust a man who does not know how to have fun, at least occasionally. However, we can wait no longer. The meeting is next week, and I must have something to show. The party will be one final test. Perhaps they have been trying to impress, and they will relax tonight. We will see. If I am satisfied, then I will make the offer tomorrow."

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End Chapter 9

_Next up - Charlie gets an offer he can't refuse, and gets in over his head._


	10. Chapter 10

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 10**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and alerts, all. Things start to go downhill..._

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Charlie pulled at the shirt collar of his tux uncomfortably as he looked in the mirror, and sighed. They had gone with Montreaux's personal assistant to rent tuxes for the party and had returned to their hotel room to change. The prospect of the next day and the pending business that Montreaux had promised should have been exciting – it was what they had come there for, but he felt oddly deflated. Part of the reason for that was the two days he had spent with nothing to do, while Don had been off with Ian and the Clemenceaus, but part of it, he knew, was due to other things. The big adventure was more grind than action, and even when things were progressing well, the underlying tension was draining. Worst of all, he'd envisioned it as a chance to bond with his brother, and that had been a complete disappointment.

As Ian had expected, they had found listening devices in their rented Monte Carlo and in their hotel room, and that had put an end to any chance for personal meaningful conversation. Not that Don would have opted for that kind of pillow talk anyway, Charlie thought morosely, but he'd had hopes. Any opportunities for a private conversation had to be set up specifically – a walk on the street, a meal at a noisy restaurant, a drink at a corner table in a bar, and they always talked strategy – they had to, there was no other time to do it. In fact, if anything, it seemed as though they had lost ground - he wasn't entirely sure who his brother was anymore. When Don was in public, he slipped into his cover persona, and when he wasn't, he was grim, intensely focused on the next phase of the job. Charlie had seen him exhibit intensity before on cases, but nothing like this. There was a hard edge to him that had been buried, apparently, since his Fugitive Recovery days. It made Charlie feel uncertain around him; he was keenly aware that there was a piece of Don that he'd had no idea existed. He wondered what else he didn't know, and how much of their relationship he had taken for granted. He'd thought that relationship had been strengthening, but after seeing his brother's acting skill, he realized that the perception that they were getting closer might be just that – perception. It was quite possible that a person only saw what Don wanted them to see.

It didn't help that his cover was messing with his perception of himself. Living daily life as a criminal toyed with a person's psyche. Don had warned him of that back in L.A. – that the job might require that Charlie would need to do things that went against everything he believed. So far, it hadn't been too much of a stretch – he was doing mathematical analysis on a computer, something he did every day. Granted, the reason for it was illegal, but it was something he could separate, and deal with reasonably well. Still, constantly thinking of himself as another person picked away at his identity bit by bit. He not only didn't know who Don was, he was beginning not to know who he was, himself.

He picked up his cell phone and glanced at it to make sure it was on before he put it in his pocket. Around midnight, he would need to turn it off. It was now the middle of the night for Amita and Larry, but they would be getting up for the day around midnight his time, and he didn't want them calling at an inopportune moment. That was another cause for feeling separated from his own identity. Every time he talked to them, he had to lie, had to make up another story about where he and Don were with their course work at Quantico. There were many times when he was in a situation where he couldn't answer the phone at all. The only good thing about the last two days was that he'd had free time, time he could spend out of the hotel room, and he'd been able to talk to Amita – at least about what she was doing, if he couldn't talk about himself.

Don was on his own cell phone; Charlie could hear him through the open door of the bathroom, and he turned as Don emerged, snapping his phone shut. "That was Ian," he said. "He said to bring a change of clothes to wear home – we can leave the tuxes there and Montreaux's guy will return them."

Charlie nodded and grabbed jeans, a shirt, and his jean jacket, and snagged a small bag from the floor. He and Don stuffed their clothes in it and Charlie zipped it up. "Ready?" Don asked.

"Yeah," said Charlie, starting to move toward the door with the bag. He felt the pressure of Don's hand on his shoulder as he passed him and looked up in surprise, to see a glimmer of something softer in his brother's eyes, something he hadn't seen in days. Charlie smiled at him, tentatively; then walked through the door, still feeling the sensation of his brother's hand, warm and unexpected. Was it a rare moment of affection, or was Don simply trying to bolster him for the job ahead? He put the question out of his mind – he knew what he wanted to believe and he was going with that.

They took the Monte Carlo; the fact that they no longer required Ian as an escort to get access to the property said a lot in itself, and tonight, they were directed toward the front of the building, up the sweeping drive, instead of to the side entrance. Lights blazed from the mansion, illuminating the white pillared front and spilling out onto manicured shrubs and the lawn. A valet took their keys, and they ascended a short flight of steps with other well-dressed guests, for the first time, walking through the front door into the large foyer. It was impressive - floors, walls, and a sweeping staircase all inlaid with white marble, and they followed the flow of guests into the grand ballroom.

The crowd that filled it was glittering, and varied. Some of them were Montreaux's closer friends, who hung with a group that looked a little edgier, a little faster, judging by the women's appearance and attire. They were slim, young, beautiful, the gowns and pantsuits clingy and revealing – money and cocaine apparently bought women with finer physical attributes and coarser morals. On the other side of the room were some of the more respectable citizens of the community; Montreaux was careful to curry favor with local government officials and successful legitimate businesspeople.

He came forward to greet them himself, flanked by Macy and Charlotte, and Charlie and Don found themselves pegged as their escorts for the evening. Charlie stifled a sigh as Charlotte took his arm and steered him away. She was gorgeous, bubbly and fun, but he knew he would spend the entire evening fending off her unwanted advances, and it put him in an awkward situation. He was trying to be cool and worldly, and he was well aware that turning down a woman of Charlotte's magnificence made him seem timid and prudish. Although, he told himself, there was safety in numbers. There couldn't be any harm in pretending to have fun with her, with flirting back a little, in this crowd. He gallantly took her drink request, and pretended to enjoy her hand resting on his shoulder, her finger lifting up to toy with his curls, as they sipped their drinks.

One drink followed another, and by the time they trooped to the dining room for dinner, Charlie was feeling a decided buzz. He was actually starting to feel a bit of euphoria, a rush of confidence. It was starting to hit him – they were in, he and Don were in. They had been accepted – and the thought made him a little bolder, relax a bit more. He jumped into conversations, flirted with Charlotte, behaved exactly as Charlie Archer would if he were having fun. Maybe it was the alcohol, but the odd part was, Charlie Eppes wasn't minding it a bit, either.

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After dinner, Don took advantage of Macy's trip to the ladies' room, and made his way over to Ian. Ian gave him a bland look. "Seems like your brother is having a good time," he remarked mildly, and Don turned to see Charlie, laughing and whispering in Charlotte's ear, who was giggling and bending down to hear him. Charlie had a drink in his hand, and looked flushed and euphoric, and Don frowned.

Ian lowered his voice. "Relax; I stood next to him for awhile. He's actually under control, alcohol-wise, and he's putting on a great show. I actually think you guys need that – you've both been pretty uptight this week, and I think Montreaux senses it. If he's still testing, I'd say that Charlie is passing with flying colors."

Don's gaze flickered across the room to Montreaux; in fact, the man was looking at Charlie. Montreaux said something to Guy Clemenceau and they both nodded – with approval, it seemed. Before Don could reply to Ian, he felt his cell phone vibrate, and he pulled it out and looked at the number, his expression changing to one of surprise. "Blinkie," he said, and flipped the phone open and stepped out to the empty foyer for privacy. Ian drifted after him, drink in hand.

"What is it?" he asked, as Don flipped his phone shut.

Don frowned. "Blinkie's apparently decided on our offer – he wants to play. He wants me to come out, spend some time with him touring his territories, meeting some of his top guys. The problem is – he wants to meet now, tonight."

Ian pursed his lips. "You can't pass that up. You want me to come with you?"

Don shook his head. "No – he asked for me – it'll be a good chance to solidify my position with Montreaux. Plus, I need you to keep an eye on Charlie."

Ian shrugged. "I'm sure Charlie can watch out for himself. I can see your point though – it would look good if you handled this yourself."

Don looked at little irritated at Ian's lackadaisical response. "Humor me, okay? Just keep an eye on him. I'm gonna tell Montreaux what I'm doing; then I'm going to change. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Ian nodded. "Okay – don't worry, I'll watch him. I'm betting Montreaux's closer friends are going to head up to the private party area eventually – don't panic if you get back and don't see us down here; that's probably where we'll be."

Don gave him a quick nod as he turned and strode back into the ballroom. He headed first to Montreaux, pulling him aside and explaining quietly that he had to leave, and why. Montreaux's eyes gleamed at the news, and he gave Don a slap on the arm. "Good work, _mon__ ami__, je__ comprend_. You have work to do, a deal to seal. We will be here when you get back."

Don shot him a grin, and headed toward Charlie next, willing himself to slow his walk a bit. On a purely intellectual level, he knew that Ian was right, that Charlie would be fine, that he'd already spent hours here alone. Of course, Charlie hadn't been drinking then.

He stepped up quietly behind him and spoke, "Charlie, got a second?"

Charlie turned away from the conversation. He was smiling and holding a drink, but the question in his eyes made Don realize that he was all there, at least so far. "I gotta go out for a little while," he said quietly. "Something's breaking on one of my deals."

Charlie kept a slight smile on his lips, but concern crept into his eyes. "Something good? Is Ian going with you?"

"Yeah, it's good," Don assured him, "but Ian's staying here. I'll be gone a couple of hours, then I'll be back. Do you know where the valet put our bag of clothes?"

Charlie's smile had vanished, but he managed to put it back on his face as Charlotte turned and stepped next to him, dangling a manicured hand over his shoulder. He looked at Don. "He said it would be across the foyer – there's a coat room there. I'll see you later." His words were light, his smile casual, but his eyes screamed, '_Be careful!'_

Don sent him a jaunty grin. "Yeah, see ya." He winked at Charlotte. "Tell Macy I'll be back."

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Charlie took a sip of his drink, and turned, with Charlotte, back to the conversation. He laughed automatically as he caught the end of a joke, but his eyes followed his brother from the room. A band was setting up – jazz, from the looks of the instruments and the sounds of the warm-up riffs being played by the tenor sax player. The lights dimmed, and the crowd began to separate, as Ian drifted up next to him. "The band is usually the dividing point," he murmured. "Slow dancing to jazz is a little too stuffy for most of Montreaux's close friends – they'll be heading upstairs to the private suite. The pillars of the community and the politicians will stay here. It'd be best if we went up with Jack's crowd."

Sure enough, Charlie noticed, some of the people he recognized from the yacht were already making their way out of the room. As if on cue, Charlotte appeared by his side, and said, "C'mon, sugar, let's go have some fun. The party's moving upstairs."

Charlie shot Ian a hesitant look, and Ian gave him a nod. "I'm right behind you," Ian said, with a smile at Charlotte.

The private suite was a section of interconnected rooms, each one a cozy, lush setting done in dark fabrics, filled with soft deep velvet-upholstered furniture, lit by antique lamps with jewel-colored shades. One of the rooms was larger, and contained a bar and a billiards table, and it was there that the crowd congregated first. Some of them started drifting off into the other rooms, and Charlotte pulled on Charlie's arm, steering him through them, giving him an impromptu tour. For an hour they mingled, pausing for conversation here and there, and waiters circulated, refreshing drinks. Montreaux hadn't arrived yet; he was making an appearance downstairs, but that didn't stop his guests from making themselves at home; most of them had obviously been there before, and all of them knew each other. There were no strangers there, and for good reason, as Charlie was to find out.

He strolled back into the larger room with Charlotte, and a couple vacated a loveseat at the same moment. Charlotte dragged him into it, and Charlie sat, gratefully; his rented shoes were starting to pinch, and he could feel it in spite of the drinks. He could feel the drinks, too; and he made a decision to try to slow down. Charlotte settled in beside him and draped an arm languidly across the back of the sofa, toying with his curls. He had the sensation he was being studied by the others in the room; there was a strange sort of tension, and so he turned and gave her a dazzling smile, for show.

Jack Montreaux's voice came from the doorway, smooth, and sounding even more Gallic than usual, preceding him into the room. "Ah_,__ chérie_," he said, as Charlie turned, and he saw Montreaux pat a young woman on the arm as he came through the doorway. "You are having a good time?"

"I'll be having a better one in a minute," she returned, and Charlie's eyes widened as one of the other guests knelt next to the glass-topped coffee table in front of him, and poured out a small pile of white powder. The man deftly separated it, cutting it into lines with a thin blade, and tossed a straw on the table. "Party's on," he said with a grin, and rose to his feet.

"I'm all that," declared one of the women, and she knelt, holding one nostril and deftly snorting a line of cocaine into the other with the straw. One after another, several of the guests followed her, until the lines were gone. Charlie's gut tightened, but he tried to look as though he'd been there before, and casually took a sip of his drink. He looked around, searching for Ian, and finally caught sight of him, standing back in the hallway, behind Montreaux. At the same time, he noticed that Montreaux was watching him.

Montreaux smiled, but his eyes were calculating. "Don't be shy, Charlie, there is more - enough for everyone."

Charlie shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but his heart was starting to hammer. He was keenly aware that the others were looking at him, and he felt Charlotte tense beside him. She was apparently in on it – this had to be another test. "That's okay," he said, with an offhand wave of his drink. "I try to stay away from the stuff – too much partying dulls the thought processes."

He was trying to sound casual, and he hoped fervently they would drop it there. He undoubtedly would lose face, but cocaine? He couldn't do that.

Montreaux kept his smile, but his voice softened ominously. "You do not understand, _mon ami_. We are family here, and this is initiation into the family. You refuse this, and you refuse the invitation. You will insult me, and my guests, and all deals will be off."

Charlie stared back at him, his mouth dry. Don's earlier words resonated through his head, '_When you're undercover, you're committed. You have to play the part, no matter what. It means that for the sake of your cover, you may have to do things that you don't ordinarily believe in_…' He looked over Montreaux's shoulder at Ian, searching for guidance, but Ian's face was inscrutable. This was it, Charlie thought. The whole fate of their mission was resting on this. If they were to continue, he had no choice.

He swallowed; then took a deep breath, shrugged and smiled. "If you wish – I don't mean to refuse your hospitality." He cocked an eyebrow at Charlotte. "Ladies first, however, I insist." The truth of it was, he hadn't paid close attention to the other users, and he wanted to watch someone again to see exactly how it was done, or he would betray just how little experience he had.

Charlotte was staring at him, but then she smiled brilliantly. "Someone get me another straw," she called out, "we'll do it together." She grabbed Charlie's hand and pulled him off the sofa, and they knelt together in front of the table. It actually was a good thing for him she was there, Charlie thought desperately; when Charlotte bent over the table, he was sure most of the eyes would be on her cleavage, rather than his shaking hands. Montreaux was still smiling, still watchful, but Charlie could see approval in his eyes. Charlotte rummaged in her purse and pulled out a small compact, waving off a man who was approaching the table with more cocaine. "That's all right," she said, "I've got some." She dumped some of the contents of the compact on the table, and using the blade, cut the white powder into two lines.

Someone produced another straw, and at that moment, Charlie was sure he was going to vomit. He had a sense that he was being pushed by an inexorable force, like the flotsam in the Mississippi, as he placed a straw in his nose and bent over the table.

"Ready - go," murmured Charlotte, and Charlie closed his eyes and inhaled.

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End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 11**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. _

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Someone whooped, and then several people laughed and applauded as Charlie straightened. He could feel an almost immediate rush, and then Charlotte laughed beside him, wiping her nose, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He felt strange and light-headed, and his heart was thumping rapidly, but he was still there. He hadn't keeled over, or died on the spot. That didn't mean he didn't want to.

He clambered to his feet and helped Charlotte up, and she flung an arm around him as Montreaux nodded at him, smiling. "Welcome to the family, Charlie." Behind him, Charlie could see Ian, slouched casually against the wall. As they made eye contact, Ian silently raised his glass in salute. Montreaux clapped his hands. "_Laissez le bon temps roulez_!" he cried, and another whoop went up from the crowd.

Someone cranked up a wild Zydeco tune on the sound system, and the beat resonated in Charlie's ears. The odd feeling was increasing, he felt buzzy, as if he was vibrating; his heart was palpitating strangely. Charlotte grabbed his arm. "Come on," she yelled over the music, "I need a drink!"

The attention had finally strayed from them as couples began gyrating to the music, and Charlie stumbled toward the bar behind her, grateful that he was finally out of the limelight.

"C'mon, let's do a shot!" Charlotte exclaimed. He looked at her; her face was flushed, her eyes oddly bright. She didn't wait for him to agree; she ordered two double shots of tequila for them and Charlie downed his, both from an attempt to fit in and a desperate desire to rid himself of the odd sensation of the drug. Alcohol was a nervous system depressant, he reasoned, maybe it would take the edge off the cocaine.

He was right, he found moments later; the alcohol dulled the effect somewhat. Unfortunately, it also was dulling his ability to think coherently. He felt Charlotte pull him out into the group of dancers, and he stumbled after her, trying to move with them, with the pounding beat, the room dissolving into a strange, whirling mélange of color and lights.

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Don sat in the passenger seat and surreptitiously glanced at the dashboard clock as Blinkie cruised the street in his Cadillac STS. It was nearly 3:30 a.m., and they'd been out for hours, riding through Blinkie's territories, stopping and meeting his lieutenants. Blinkie's gang was large; a dominant force in the city under-society, and Don was gathering enough information to put the majority of them behind bars. Unfortunately, that wasn't what he was there for – he would have to let all of it slide, look the other way, at least until their mission was finished.

"One mo' location," said Blinkie. He lifted a large, gold-bedecked paw from the steering wheel and gestured at two men in dew rags lounging on a corner. "They's some of my dealers for this area. This territory's owned by Runboy – he's my lieutenant, an' those dealers work for him. Runboy got issues with this area – there's a big dealer on the other side of the street – he take a lot of business, and he ain't afraid of Runboy – he got backup. Name's Smoky Pete."

Don nodded. Smoky Pete was one of Montreaux's dealers, but he couldn't tell Blinkie that – Blinkie didn't know that Montreaux was behind Don's offer. "I might have some influence on that," was all he said. The fact was, if both dealers were selling his cocaine, Montreaux wouldn't really care which one was doing it – Runboy or Smoky Pete. Smoky Pete and his lieutenant might have an issue with a reduced territory, but Montreaux would consider it worth his while to make them back off, if he could get Runboy's section of streets.

Blinkie nodded. "You get that, and you got my deal. I don't know who yo' man is, but I think we can do good bizness together." He looked at Don. "Runboy ain't available right now – if you wanna meet him, we can wait, or we can do it another night. I jist wanted you to see his territory."

"Nah, that's okay," said Don. "We got plenty of time for that."

Blinkie grinned, flashing a solid gold grill. "You ain't shittin'. This gonna be good." He held out a fist, and Don bumped it with his own.

Blinkie turned the corner, heading back toward the warehouse where they'd met. '_Thank God,_' Don thought to himself. He couldn't wait to get back to Montreaux's estate and check up on Charlie. That anxiety completely overrode any sense of victory he felt over closing the deal with Blinkie, or the tension he felt over riding solo with a notorious gang leader in the middle of the night.

At a few minutes to four a.m., he was in his car and pulling out his cell phone, as he steered the Monte Carlo out of the warehouse lot. He started to dial Charlie; then hesitated. They had to be careful of what they said because of the bug in the car and because he didn't know who might be listening to Charlie on the other end, plus, he had no idea how much Charlie had had to drink, and whether he was still sharp enough to take care with his conversation. After a moment's reflection, he dialed Ian instead.

"Yeah," came Ian's voice over the phone.

"Ian. Just got done with Blinkie. We got ourselves a deal," said Don, for the benefit of the listening device. "Is Montreaux still up?"

"Nah, I don't think so," said Ian. "The legit crowd is long gone, and a lot of the upstairs group has gone home or to bed here for the night. That's good about Blinkie – Montreaux will be glad to hear it."

"Charlie get back to the hotel okay?"

There was brief hesitation. "Nah – he crashed here." Don felt an uncomfortable sensation in his gut – had something happened? Ian apparently sensed the apprehension in the dead silence on the other end, because he continued quickly. "He's fine. I'm gonna stay here myself tonight. You might as well head on back to the hotel. We'll hook up in the morning."

Don clenched the steering wheel in frustration. He suspected the fact that Charlie had slept at Montreaux's estate meant he might have had a little too much to drink, and losing control like that among Montreaux's people was dangerous in itself. He wanted to ask Ian what had happened, but that was impossible. All he could do was take Ian's word that Charlie was all right. "Okay, yeah," he said, trying to sound cool, calm, weary; instead of wound tight. "I'll talk to you in the morning." He flipped the cell phone shut, and drove through the dark, nearly deserted streets, his mind racing.

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Morning light seeped through the gaps in the draperies, and teased Charlie's closed lids. He heard a shower come on, and for a moment, he thought he was at the hotel and it was Don in the shower. He felt horrible; nauseated, and knew that beignets and café au lait probably weren't going to cut it this morning.

Someone was humming, and he frowned; the voice was female. Not Don. With a sinking feeling, he opened his eyes. He was in strange bedroom, tangled in strange sheets, and was staring directly into an open bathroom doorway at a completely nude Charlotte. His heart lurched sickeningly as the memories from the night before struck him – the cocaine, the subsequent drinking – he didn't remember much after that, but apparently, he'd passed out, spent the night with Charlotte. A vision of Amita rushed immediately to his mind, and defying the odds, he felt immeasurably worse. He'd betrayed her – dear God, what had he done?

A groan escaped him, and caught Charlotte's attention. She threw on a robe, padded out of the bathroom and over to him, and bent and kissed his forehead. "Good morning, lover," she cooed. She nuzzled his stubbled cheek, and he felt like screaming. "You were unbelievable last night," she murmured, and then brushed her lips across his forehead again. "I'm gonna get a shower, honey, I'll be out in sec."

Charlie couldn't speak; he tried to smile at her, tried to cling to the charade, but she'd turned and didn't see it. It was probably a good thing; the smile was more than likely a grotesque grimace. 'Unbelievable last night?' He'd been a willing participant? His gut roiled, and he suddenly knew he was going to be sick – he rolled out of bed like a palsy victim, lurching and shaking, and made it to the toilet, just barely. The shower was set off by another doorway from the main bathroom, and the last little shred of his dignity that was left had him hoping she hadn't heard his pitiful retching over the sound of the water.

He flushed the toilet, sank onto the floor and just sat there, realizing he at least was wearing his boxers, but too miserable to care. Don's words floated through his head. "_You have to play the part, no matter what…you may have to do things that you don't ordinarily believe in_…," He'd played the part all right. Hopefully, if he hadn't screwed up anything after he'd gotten drunk; he'd managed to keep their mission alive. Right now, that was small consolation. It was hard to appreciate saving the free world when he'd just gone against every personal principle he had.

Between Charlotte's primping and Charlie's slow painful attempts to shower, it took them over an hour to get downstairs. Charlie didn't bother to shave; it was all he could do to shower and dress. It was after ten, but they were still some of the first ones in the ground floor kitchen, where breakfast was being served. Montreaux was there, along with his cousin Pierre, Ian and the Clemenceaus, and two other bleary-eyed partiers that Charlie recognized, just barely, from the night before. A cook bustled at the far end of the kitchen, and the smell of hot oil permeated the air, making Charlie's stomach turn. He sank into a chair, avoiding Ian's eyes, and Charlotte gave his shoulder a squeeze and went humming cheerfully to pour them coffee.

Montreaux smiled. "You are ver' cheerful this morning, _chérie_," he said to Charlotte. "You had a good night?"

"A _very_ good night," Charlotte agreed, setting a mug of coffee in front of Charlie. She placed a kiss on the top of Charlie's head, in his still slightly damp curls, and backed away to lean against the counter holding her mug with both hands.

Guy Clemenceau chuckled. "It looks like you wore him out, woman."

Charlotte rolled her eyes and grinned. "Quite the contrary, honey, I assure you."

Charlie smiled weakly and lifted his coffee to his lips, stealing a glance at the group as he did. As his head cleared, a nasty worry had entered it - what if he'd slipped, said something he shouldn't, last night? Ian was watching him, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

Montreaux was watching him too, smiling, but it had faded slightly. "I think you are right, Charlie, for staying away from the drugs. It appears you don't handle them ver' well, _non_? I have a job for you, and I think it best if you go away to do it – away from the parties, and -," he flicked a glance at Charlotte, "the diversions."

Charlie found his voice. "Away?" he managed. That was good - Montreaux was going ahead with his offer, so it was likely he still suspected nothing. On the other hand, if Charlie had slipped and didn't realize it, 'away' could be permanent.

Montreaux nodded. "I have a home in the bayou – it is quiet there, no distractions, and there are computers there tied to my server. When you are finished, then you can return here. After breakfast, I will talk to you privately about the job." He rose, and patted Charlie on the cheek. "Get something in you, _mon ami_," he said. "I recommend beignets and café au lait."

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Don paced the floor of the small meeting room off the garage, impatiently, and glanced at his watch. Almost 11:00 a.m. Ian had called him moments before and said that he and Charlie were en route to the hotel, and told him they would meet at the room. "The room," was code for the vacant office off the parking garage; they had agreed ahead of time that they would specify "hotel room," if they meant to meet at the hotel. The fact that Ian wanted to meet there meant something was up, something they couldn't discuss in the car or at the hotel room – something that Ian didn't even want to discuss in public, on the street. The call played on his nerves, already jangled by a sleepless night.

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Ian pulled into the parking garage and regarded Charlie, who was sitting with his head against the headrest, eyes closed. "Let's go," he said, "you need to get packed." Charlie opened his eyes and clawed at the door handle, listlessly sliding out onto concrete, and shut the door. "I think I'm going to be sick," he said, as Ian came around the vehicle.

Ian regarded him with sympathy, and glanced toward the SUV. It was unlikely that the bug inside would pick up their conversation with the doors closed, but he pulled Charlie a few feet away anyway, and spoke quietly. "Why don't you wait here a minute?" he said. "I'll go and fill Don in – you can come in after me – give me five. I'll tell him you're on your way – that you got sick or something."

Charlie looked at Ian miserably. "Do we have to tell him?" he asked weakly.

Ian shrugged. "He's gonna hear anyway, the next time he shows up at Montreaux's. It's safer for him to tell him here, where no one can see or hear his reaction. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Charlie. You did what you had to do for the mission – we all know that wasn't you, that wasn't something you would ordinarily do. Montreaux gave you an ultimatum – you had no choice. Actually, you probably don't remember all of it, but you played your part perfectly last night. I think you needed to do that to convince Montreaux - up until last evening you were a little too straight. Don will understand – but let me break it to him; you come in a few minutes after me, okay?"

Charlie turned and lurched between the cars, suddenly. "I don't think that's going to be a problem," he gasped, and Ian turned away, wincing as the sound of retching followed him through the garage. He closed his ears to the sound, trying to figure out how in the hell he was going to tell Don Eppes that his little brother had been forced into snorting cocaine last night, and he had stood there and watched.

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End Chapter 11

_Laissez le bon temps roulez_! - Let the good times roll!


	12. Chapter 12

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 12**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: I want tell you thanks so much for the alerts and reviews, and I really enjoy writing for you. Patty, you don't need to worry about running out of story, there are many chapters to come. The next post will be my usual Tuesday. Here's Chapter 12..._

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"He did WHAT?!" Don exploded.

Ian shot a glance back toward the metal door of the garage office, hoping Don's outburst couldn't be heard outside. "Calm down," he said. "He didn't have another option. He was sitting there with Charlotte, nursing a drink, and they started doing lines of coke on the coffee table right in front of him. He was doing fine, acting like it was no big deal, but Jack Montreaux called him on it – told him to try some. Charlie tried to beg off, but Montreaux said he was 'joining the family,' and it would be an insult to refuse, and he'd call any deals off if he did. Charlie didn't have a choice."

"That's bullshit!" Don shot back. He felt sick – he'd known this was no place for Charlie, he'd _known_ what a cesspool undercover work was, and now his brother had been sucked down into the muck. "Montreaux needs Charlie. He might have been pissed if Charlie said no, but he wouldn't have called off the deal."

"We don't know that."

"He's okay?"

"Yeah – like I said, he's pretty sick this morning, but I think it was the alcohol more than anything else. He'll be all right. He'll be in here in a minute."

Don looked at the door as if he was considering going out to find him, then paced instead, his voice tight. "In that condition, Charlie could have jeopardized the mission – God knows what he could have said while he was high. Were you with him after that?"

"I kept an eye on him. I wasn't always close enough to hear what was said, but I'm pretty sure he was okay. He was with Charlotte the whole time – they ended up getting drunk and headed off to her room at around two – or rather, she pulled him and he followed. I imagine he just passed out, by the looks of him – he was beyond trashed. No one was trying to talk to him, they left him alone with Charlotte – I think he finally put their suspicions to rest."

Don stared at him. "He spent the night with Charlotte?" The sick feeling in his gut intensified, as he thought of Charlie's relationship with Amita – it was sweet and relatively innocent, in spite of the fact they slept together – they were committed to each other, like college kids in love. Now Ian was telling him his brother had not only snorted coke last night, he had slept with another woman.

"Trust me, that was one of the safest places he could be in his condition," Ian retorted sharply. He was starting to get angry himself at Don's accusations, and his voice rose. "I couldn't drag him out of her room, it wouldn't have looked right."

"And you were supposed to be watching him – keeping him out of trouble!" Don roared back. "What happened to that?"

Ian's eyes flashed dangerously, but he bit off a retort as he heard a slight knock at the door, which had locked automatically when the latch engaged. He swore mentally – Charlie had shown up too soon. Don was far angrier than Ian had thought he would be, and he hadn't had a chance to calm him down yet. He watched silently as Don crossed the small office in two strides, and yanked open the door.

Charlie stood there wide-eyed, pale and motionless, obviously taken aback by the look on Don's face. He hesitated, and in the next instant, Don grabbed him by the front of shirt and pulled him inside, and slammed the door closed. He pushed Charlie unceremoniously against it, still holding the front of his shirt. "What in the hell were you thinking, Charlie?! Of all the goddamn, stupid, impulsive - ," He broke off sputtering, too upset to find words, and Charlie stared back up at him, with a hopeless expression.

Ian wasn't one given to sympathy, but he'd never felt sorrier for anyone in his life. It was obvious that Charlie was already miserable enough about what had happened, and it was also obvious that he was taking his brother's frustration to heart. Ian also knew that to Don's credit, his anger was generated by worry over his brother, but tension was rife in the room, and he had to smooth things over. "He was thinking like an undercover agent," he said quietly and firmly. "If he wasn't your brother, Don, would you still think he had done the wrong thing? You wouldn't, and you know it. Charlie did exactly what he was expected to do, as an agent."

The words, at least, had partial effect. Don slowly released Charlie's shirt, and stepped back. Along with calming Don, Ian had been hoping to bolster Charlie's confidence; he was going to need it in the week ahead. Charlie, however, looked just as miserable as he had on the ride there - probably more so; any of Ian's comforting words had apparently been pre-empted by his brother's reaction. "We can't stay long," Ian continued, gruffly. "Charlie needs to pack."

Don looked startled. "Pack?"

Charlie had composed himself enough to speak, but his voice sounded leaden. "I got the assignment," he said quietly, as Don turned back to look at him. "He's giving me the export job – he wants me to go out to his house in Spanish Bayou to work on it for the next few days. He said it's a quieter spot to work, but I also think he wants the privacy." He broke off, looking at Don, as if hoping for the slightest hint of approval.

"No way." Don's lips tightened; and he turned back to Ian. "We're pulling him off this, now."

Ian stared at him. "What, are you crazy? We're in – we'll never get another chance at this if you pull out now."

Don stared him down, angrily. "And I think _you're_ crazy. You're gonna put him in there on his own, after the lack of judgment he showed last night?"

"It won't happen again," Charlie said, dully.

"Damn right, it won't," Don shot back over his shoulder. He turned back to Ian. "If we pull out, the CIA still has a shot at getting the info they want. If Charlie goes out there and screws up somehow, they won't – and he'll end up dead on top of it."

"If he pulls out now, he'll end up dead for sure," Ian said quietly. "Montreaux gave him the parameters of the assignment before he left this morning, is that not right, Charlie?" At Charlie's nod, he continued. "If I'm not mistaken, Charlie knows enough about the project that even at this point that he's a danger to them. They don't want anyone to know that they've even asked for this to be done. You think they'll let him walk away?"

"It doesn't matter," Charlie said quietly to Ian. "You don't have to convince him. I'm the one who needs to decide here, and I've made up my mind." He turned for the door, pointedly ignoring Don, although instead of looking defiant, his shoulders were slumped, his expression defeated, resigned. "I'm going to go pack now."

"Charlie -," Don started forward.

Ian grabbed his arm, and stepped quickly between Don and the door, which had drifted shut behind Charlie. "Wait a minute, Don. Just calm down. You need to slow down and think. Last night rattled him pretty bad, and now he's getting ready to spend a week on his own with some of Montreaux's goons. He needs to have his head on straight, and you're not helping. You need to set aside the fact that he's your brother, and look at him like an agent."

"He's not an agent," Don protested. "He's not even like you or me, Ian. No one can justify the slightest risk of screwing up a mind like that – they don't come along that often."

"It was one hit of cocaine, Don, that's all he did. I know it wasn't the greatest situation, but one hit is not going to kill him. You aren't going to stand there and tell me you never got in a situation undercover where you didn't have to take a hit, to do some kind of narcotic to fit in, or to keep from blowing your cover. I know I have."

Don's jaw worked, and he looked away, then back at Ian. "And how did it make you feel, afterward? I felt like shit – like I was worth less as a person. _This_ is why I didn't want him to take this assignment – this is exactly why. Even if you make it out alive, it eats away at you, at who you are. He had a good life – he didn't need this crap –_ I_ didn't need this crap again."

"Well, we're here now, and we have to make the best of it," Ian said quietly. "He'll listen to you. You need to take him aside, and tell him that he's doing okay – help him get his head on straight before he goes under for a week. At least do it for the sake of the mission, if nothing else."

Don closed his eyes, and an expression of resigned pain flitted across his face, then he opened them, and sighed. "Yeah, all right. I'll talk to him."

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Charlie had made it halfway down the hall toward the door that led to the outside street when he realized that he didn't have a hotel key – it was in the bag in Ian's vehicle, the bag he had brought to Montreaux's estate the night before with his change of clothes. He turned and headed back down the hall, toward the door the led to the first floor of the garage, and as he passed the doorway to the small office, he realized the door hadn't latched behind him. It was open the tiniest crack, and he could hear Don and Ian talking.

The conversation was indistinct in the hallway, but if he put his ear near the crack, he could make out the words. He told himself he was just going to shut it for safety's sake, but as he reached for the knob, he found himself listening, craning to hear. He picked up Don's voice first: _"– I didn't need this crap again," _and then Ian's:_ "Well, we're here now, and we have to make the best of it. He'll listen to you. You need to take him aside, and tell him that he's doing okay – help him get his head on straight before he goes under for a week. At least do it for the sake of the mission, if nothing else."_

Charlie winced. He'd suspected that Don had been secretly angry with him for insisting on taking this assignment, and apparently he'd been right. The knowledge was like a knife twisting in his gut – how much else was Don hiding? He'd come to a realization from the beginning of this that he really didn't know his brother; he had found Don to be a consummate actor, and skilled at hiding his true feelings. From what he'd just heard, any hope that his brother really cared about him was slim, and Charlie's shameful actions the night before surely hadn't helped. He heard Don's reluctant agreement to talk to him, but he was already backing away from the door, then turning and half-running, half-walking down the hall, back to the outside door. He didn't want them to know he'd been listening – he was already a drug user and someone who slept with strange women – he didn't need to them to know he was a sneak and an eavesdropper in addition. He pushed outside, ran the block down to the hotel, and pushed through the door, catching a glimpse of Don and Ian as they came out of the garage, a block away, just as he went inside. He ignored the clerk in the lobby, it was all he could do to breathe – the run had made him feel ill again, and he dragged down the hallway to the room. There, he leaned his back against the wall, slid down it to a sitting position, still breathing heavily, and put his head on his knees.

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Don turned down the hotel hallway with Ian, and saw the figure sitting hunched against the wall at the end of the hall, outside the door to their room. Charlie had pulled his knees up and folded his arms over them, and was resting his head on his arms, the picture of abject misery. Don felt his heart contract; Ian was right, Charlie was taking this hard, and he, Don, hadn't helped the situation by exploding. Granted, Charlie was the one who had gotten them into this, but Don couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

Charlie raised his head as they approached, but he didn't keep eye contact, even when Don held out a hand to help him to his feet.

"I didn't have a key," Charlie said, as he stood, reluctantly taking Don's outstretched hand. His voice sounded lifeless. He looked at Ian. "It's in your SUV, in the duffel I brought. I think you locked it."

Ian nodded. "I did. I'll go back and get it while you start getting your things together." He shot a glance at Don, and headed back down the hallway.

Don took his cue. Now was his chance, before they went into the room and had to stifle their conversation because of the listening device. He put an arm around Charlie, and gave his shoulders a squeeze. "I'm sorry I yelled," he said softly. "You did what you had to do last night, Charlie. It's okay." He released his grip and slid the key card in the door. The green light flashed, and he grabbed the latch.

Charlie looked up at him, then away. He looked so down, so defeated, that Don's heart twisted. Don had turned the latch to open the door, but paused as Charlie said quietly, "It's all right, you can save your speech; you didn't mean it anyway."

He pushed the door open and went inside, leaving Don staring, open-mouthed, after him.

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End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 13**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

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_Weak, stupid, sleazy._ Charlie sat quietly in the back seat of Jean Clemenceau's black Ford Expedition, his arms crossed around his middle, and stared at the foreign landscape. After a good hour and a half of travel, they had left the main highway, and were now on gravel road, winding through swamp. Although it was light on the road, the trees that flanked it were huge and dense, hung with gray Spanish moss that floated eerily from the branches. Under the canopy of branches, it was dark, gloomy; the view coincided neatly with the way that Charlie felt.

The fact was; he'd been shaken to his core by the events of the night before. He'd decided yesterday that this was no longer an exciting adventure; it had been bordering on tedious, frustrating. After last night, it was far worse. The job had gone from tedious to soul-sucking. He no longer wanted to be here – he longed for home, to retreat and lick the wounds inflicted on his psyche. It was horrible enough to think of the coke, the night with Charlotte – to see the look on his brother's face had made it all worse. Don despised him - he was sure of it. _Weak, stupid, sleazy._ Those had to be the words running through his brother's head.

There was nothing he could do, however - nothing he could do now except to finish the job, because then, at least, he could show that he had the guts and integrity to complete the task he'd accepted. That task was the whole reason he'd compromised his principles, and he would finish it, or die trying. Charlie's only chance of redeeming himself – within his own mind, and with Don - was to take down Montreaux and whoever else was behind this. Otherwise, he would have sold his soul for nothing.

He closed his eyes; he could still feel the pressure of his brother's gentle squeeze in the hotel hallway, saw the concern in Don's eyes. It had looked real; maybe it was. It _had_ to be, he thought to himself, as he reflected back over the many little indicators over the last few years that had made him think that they were finally getting closer. Don hadn't been undercover in those moments; he had no reason to obscure his true reactions. The recent distance between them _had_ to be a product of their current situation – at least, that's what Charlie told himself. Getting closer to Don, gaining his respect – those were some of Charlie's biggest reasons for taking this assignment. He couldn't believe that their relationship had never existed, or worse yet, was being broken by what they were going through. If he thought that, he'd never get through this. He smiled, faintly, wryly. Ian had told his brother to give him a pep talk, and in spite of Charlie knowing that, in spite of his own refusal to accept his brother's effort to do so, Don had still made him feel better. Don cared. That belief would get him through this. Don was his brother, and he cared.

The Expedition turned up yet another gravel drive, which was overhung even more darkly by trees, only broken by the occasional telephone pole. From time to time, Charlie caught glimpses of water, dark among cypress roots, and his overtired mind conjured up visions of snakes and alligators, slithering among the stagnant pools. Finally, they crossed a small bridge and Charlie realized that they were traveling onto an island. The road twisted through trees, Spanish moss caressing the vehicle like ghostly hair, until they reached a clearing. In the middle of it stood a house, a log home actually; it was large, rambling, darkened by moisture and age. Jean pulled the vehicle to a stop with a crunch of tires on gravel. Charlie slid out of the backseat and looked around him as Jean tromped to the back of the vehicle and opened the rear hatch. He gazed at the house – this would be his home for up to a week, which was his deadline for turning in the program to Montreaux.

For that, they would need to travel back to the city. Montreaux was not with them; only Jean Clemenceau and Montreaux's cousin, Pierre, had made the trip. The plan was to develop the program as quickly as possible, and return to Montreaux's estate in New Orleans to demonstrate it, and make sure it was fully integrated into Max and Mike's computer systems. There was a silver lining in this – Max and Mike would not be here looking over his shoulder; he could very possibly get a chance to dig into Montreaux's smuggling schemes.

From somewhere deep in the swamp, a scream split the air, and Charlie jumped. Pierre Montreaux smirked at him. "Nutria," he said. "They sound just like a woman, screaming. Freaked me out when I first heard them – never heard nothing like that in Canada." He handed Charlie his bag, and swept his hand. "Welcome to the swamp, man."

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At that moment, two phone calls were going out from the Washington, D.C. area, from locations only twenty miles apart.

Jack Montreaux received one of them in his study. He had just met with Don Archer and received the news that he was about to go into partnership with Blinkie, which was welcome indeed. He made sure that Don was well aware of his gratitude, and instructed him to meet with his men and begin to set up meetings with Blinkie's lieutenants. Don had just gone, and Montreaux was sitting at his desk, reflecting that the Archers had been excellent additions to his staff. He really needed to commend Ian Crocker for bringing them into the operations – in fact, he thought, a nice bonus was in order for Ian, who had proven to be indispensable.

The phone rang, and his eyes narrowed at the number. He had been dreading it, up until this morning. Now, however, he had good news – he finally had someone assigned to the task of developing the export scheme. He picked up the phone, pretending he hadn't seen the number. "Jack Montreaux."

On the other end of the line, J. Scott Marsh spoke, his voice cool, and a trifle condescending. "Jack. How's it going?"

"_Merveilleux_," said Montreaux, heartily. "Wonderful. I have found my consultant, and he is developing the plan as we speak."

Marsh sounded unimpressed. "And when did this happen?"

"I have been evaluating him for a week now – the name I gave you a few days ago, Charles Archer. I made my decision last night, and gave him the job this morning. He has already accepted and has been taken to a private location to work."

"You realize that you only have a week. The buyers will be in the country as of Tuesday, and we still plan to meet on Friday."

"Archer seems confident that he can do it in that amount of time, and based on another project he did for me; I think he can. As for the meeting, I am prepared. A floral delivery van will pick you and the buyers up at the location, as we discussed. I will have only the staff here at the house necessary for the demonstration. I will dispatch most of my staff for the day – there will be no chance of you or the clients being seen here, except by myself and a handful of my most trusted staff."

Marsh grunted. "Very well. I will call you on Tuesday for an update. If there is any chance of you not meeting the deadline, I need to know. It will be difficult, at best, to make sure our guests go unnoticed. I need to be able to plan in advance if they need to stay longer. And of course, any delay will not look good to them – it may make them skeptical of your ability to deliver."

"Of course," replied Montreaux easily. "And I expect that we will meet the schedule."

"Good. Until Tuesday, then."

"_Au__ revoir__,__ mon ami_."

Montreaux hung up the phone and tented his fingers, thoughtfully. He knew, in fact, that asking Charlie Archer to come up with the detailed plan in that amount of time would be a tall order. It would need to include how the weapons equipment would arrive at loading areas, how it would be shipped, and to where, so it could be dispersed to an interim location, maybe two, then repackaged and sent to Iran. It was exceedingly complex, more complex than Montreaux's cocaine smuggling scheme, and that had taken his man a month to complete. As a starting point, Montreaux had given Charlie Archer authorization to view the cocaine import plan. It was a risk, to be sure, but he was now reasonably certain that Archer was who he said he was, and besides, he had no choice; he was running out of time. If the cocaine shipping system gave Charlie some understanding of what his organization could do, or even some ideas on how to manage the weapons logistics, then it would be well worth it.

Marsh irritated him. The man would not even be where he was, a high-ranking official in the CIA, had it not been for Montreaux's family. Their families went back years; Jack's father, Jacques, had been good friends with Joe Marsh, senior. Joseph Marsh, Jr., had been bright and ruthless, even as a child, but his chances of success in life were dim; the family had little money. Jacques Montreaux had money and connections in government, and saw to it that Joe Marsh, Jr. got an education. Along the way, Marsh, Jr. dropped the 'Joe,' and the 'Jr.' and became J. Scott Marsh – a pretentious name selection that indicated his sense of self-importance. Out of school, he went into the Department of Defense, and spent several years as an analyst in the Middle East. He developed so many contacts there that the CIA took interest, and hired him for their own analyses. Montreaux suspected that even back then Marsh was dirty, working both ways. J. Scott was eventually brought back stateside, and promoted within the CIA. He wasn't in the upper echelons of CIA management, but he was close. He was now using his inside knowledge to broker the weapons deal with a group of Iranians, for an unimaginable amount of cash.

He had approached Montreaux nearly two months ago, claiming he had information on Jack's cocaine smuggling operation, and was both complimentary and threatening. He admired Jack's system, he had told him. It would be shame if someone in the DEA caught wind of it. On the other hand, if Montreaux were willing to help his Iranian clients procure weapons manufacturing equipment, Marsh would look the other way. Not only that; he would assure that Jack would become a very rich man, indeed.

Montreaux sighed as he looked at the clock. A part of him was wishing that Marsh had never re-entered his life – if he failed at this, Marsh would retaliate somehow. The stakes were much higher – treason, if he were caught. On the other hand, the rewards were vast – Iranian oil money was apparently unlimited. There really had been only one decision Montreaux could make – and now, everything rode on the head of the somewhat peculiar young man, Charlie Archer, out in Spanish Bayou.

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The second call from the Washington area came into Colby Granger's desk at ten a.m., L.A. time. He broke into a grin at the voice. "Megan! How are you doin'?"

Her voice sounded from the headset that connected his phone to his head. "Good, Colby, how are things?"

"Aw, you know, the usual. Runnin' down the bad guys with Sinclair. How's the new career?"

"Good," she replied. "I'm actually in Washington, D.C., lobbying this week on behalf of women's correctional facilities. I'm part of a group that is meeting with some senators, trying to get more Federal aid for counseling. The counseling group I work for sent me - but the reason I'm calling is, I called Larry in Geneva yesterday, and he told me Don and Charlie are at Quantico working on some courses. I'm only a half hour away; I thought I could catch up with them and do dinner, or something."

"Yeah, I'd bet they'd like that," replied Colby, wondering what dinner in D.C. had to do with him.

"Well, the funny thing is, I called Don twice and got no answer, so I called a couple people that I know at Quantico, and they said they hadn't seen Don or Charlie; hadn't heard anything about the course. I left a couple of messages on Don's cell yesterday, but he hasn't called me back yet. I thought maybe I should check to see if they came home already."

"No, they didn't come back yet – in fact, they were supposed to be gone for at least a couple of weeks, maybe more," said Colby. "Quantico's a big place; it's possible that your contacts haven't seen them, depending on where they're working."

"Oh, well," Megan responded cheerfully. "I'll keep trying. If Don calls in for some reason, tell him to quit ignoring me and call – I'll be here for a few days yet. Tell Sinclair I said 'hi.'"

"Will do," Colby promised. "Take care." The line disconnected and he scratched his head. Now that he thought about it, Don had only called into the office once during the last week. Not that he was expected to call, but Don hated to be out of the action, and he'd left with pending cases – Colby would have bet a paycheck that Don would have been trying to tie up the loose ends from Quantico. Even David had remarked that he was surprised that Don wasn't trying to direct them from afar.

He yawned and scratched his head again. '_No great mystery, really_,' he thought to himself. '_The guy's just busy._' He stretched and stood, and headed to the break room for a coffee.

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Charlie stretched and sat back and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the digital readout in the lower corner of the computer screen told him that it was 4:00 a.m.

He'd worked non-stop all afternoon, only stopping to eat with Jean Clemenceau and Pierre Montreaux. Both of them were obviously already bored; they'd played cards all afternoon, and Pierre had decided to drone on about the Montreaux family history at dinner, including the fact that Jack's grandfather and Pierre's grandfather were brothers, and Jack's great-grandfather had built the lodge that they were in now. Charlie had finally excused himself to go work, and the two men had retreated to a family room to watch satellite television; Jack had outfitted the cabin with modern amenities.

They weren't watching him closely, and that was precisely what Charlie needed. Montreaux had given him access to the main program that ran the cocaine smuggling scheme, and it turned out that very little hacking was needed to get into even the encrypted portions of the files. Montreaux was apparently bringing the cocaine in by larger ship to the international water boundary just outside the U.S. and dispersing it in smaller containers to several small fishing boats, which would meet the produce ship there. The fishing boats would travel to their home ports, small marinas in and around New Orleans, and as far away as the sleepy sun-drenched resort marinas in Orange Beach, Alabama, and Perdido Key, Florida. There, the shipments were picked up and delivered by land, mostly in seafood trucks, to the warehouses in the Garden District, where they were shuffled to Montreaux's warehouses and repacked on large produce delivery trucks, often alongside the same shipment of South American produce with which they had traveled overseas.

It was a neat set-up, but Charlie could use little of it. Small packages of cocaine bore no resemblance to large pieces of machinery, and the cocaine was coming in, not going out. He decided, however, that the basic premise would work; although they would need to break down the equipment into unrecognizable components, and reassemble it at the final destination. That meant delivering instructions, which would have to be done separately. Interestingly enough, Montreaux had told him that they would ship directly out of New Orleans, and that he expected some relief from the normal customs inspections. He hadn't said why, but Charlie suspected that Montreaux had arranged some kind of deal with someone in customs.

He had stopped at midnight; the long night before finally caught up with him, but he was up again at 3:00 a.m. and went back to work again in the silence – well, near silence; he could hear Jean Clemenceau snoring from the bedroom. From time to time, other noises would intrude; he could hear the screams of nutria outside in the dark swamp, eerily piercing the night. He was wired, immersed in the problem; at times he was so involved in the pure pleasure of working the logic, he would forget that what he was working on was illegal, dangerous, treasonous. He used the opportunity that the solitude presented to download the cocaine smuggling system onto the small flash drive in his jean jacket. When he had the export smuggling system done, he would download that, also. He glanced at the hallway that led to the bedrooms. All was quiet. He needed to try to hack into Montreaux's email, and now was the perfect opportunity.

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Don lay on the bed in the hotel room; his fingers laced under his head, and stared up at the darkness. He'd gotten little sleep the night before and had gone to bed early, but had woken at 3:30 a.m., driven awake by worry. The preceding week had flown by, leaving them little time for forward planning, and none for discussion of any kind. Even in the darkness, he was aware of the bug in the room, tucked under the leg of dresser. It had kept their conversations to a minimum at night while they were awake, and made for silence when they went to bed. There were several nights that he knew Charlie wasn't asleep; he wasn't either, but they couldn't talk because of the bug. Well, they could have made small talk, but that didn't seem to make much sense in the middle of the night when they were supposed to be sleeping, and small talk wouldn't have addressed the things that needed to be said, anyway. Instead, they lay there staring at the dark ceiling, like Don was doing now. Lying there, just wondering what was going on his brother's head, had made Don realize that he couldn't even hazard a guess, and he imagined it was the same for Charlie. They really didn't know each other, not like that. Oh, they had a good enough understanding of how the other would behave in normal times, when they were in their normal roles at home, but in situations like this? They obviously had a lot to learn.

'_I_ have a lot to learn,' Don corrected himself, silently. He never would have guessed that Charlie would have had the guts to ingest an illegal drug, especially cocaine, even if it meant that he would compromise the mission if he didn't. And then to pull it off without being so flustered that he screwed it up while trying – well, it simply was hard to visualize. Apparently, Charlie was capable of more subterfuge than Don had imagined. The thought made him wonder how well he really knew him. What else was Charlie capable of doing? The behavior that really got to him though, wasn't the drug – it was the fact that Charlie had gone to bed with another woman. It would have been one thing if he'd simply passed out, as Ian had surmised that evening, but according to Ian, Charlotte had gone on about his brother's prowess in bed the next morning. Charlie had apparently willingly had sex with her – and that was what bothered Don.

He shouldn't be criticizing – he'd had more flings than Charlie had digits, but that truly, was the problem. It wasn't something he was necessarily proud of himself, and he'd always thought Charlie above that kind of behavior – Charlie's romantic relationships had been few, and relatively serious. The problem was, it hadn't been _necessary_ for Charlie to do it – to sleep with her. The cocaine was another matter; Charlie _had_ to take the drug, Montreaux had given him an ultimatum, but Montreaux hadn't ordered him to sleep with Charlotte. Charlie could have hung around for a decent interval and then gotten Ian to drive him home, instead of getting drunk on top of the coke, and screwing Montreaux's floozy.

He blinked. Had he really just thought that? He felt a little abashed at even using a phrase like that in conjunction with his brother, but hell, what had Charlie been thinking? He had a solid relationship with Amita; he had recently met her parents, and after that, it seemed that the two of them were even more committed. Don, in spite of the number of his relationships, had at least never cheated on his current significant other, and he couldn't imagine Charlie doing so. There had to be something else to it – there _had_ to be. The Charlie he knew would never have done that – he had too much character, higher moral standards than that. Still, even if there was a good explanation, Don couldn't help but sense that his brother's moral code was being eroded; his relative innocence being tarnished, and he hated the thought. Undercover work did that to everyone to some degree, unless they had no moral code to begin with. He couldn't stand seeing it happen to Charlie.

He sighed, and ran a hand over his face. He couldn't wait until this was over; until he and Charlie were safely back home. He felt an underlying sensation of anger, and even though he knew it was generated by frustration and tension, he couldn't rid himself of it. Most of the frustration came back to Charlie - from the fact that Charlie had insisted on taking the undercover assignment to begin with, and from the way Charlie had been behaving lately. Most of the tension was due to Charlie, too – the fact that his brother was off on his own in some godforsaken swamp with two dangerous men was driving Don crazy; creating an undercurrent of anxiety that was sorely testing his patience. All of it was adding up to an almost unbearable sensation of unease, a feeling of foreboding – a feeling that something was about to explode.

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End Chapter 13

_A/N: Something__ is__ about to explode. In the next few chapters, this story is going to take a very unexpected turn. I'm pretty certain that none of you will see this coming. Don't get whiplash, now._


	14. Chapter 14

**Mind Games**

**Chapter 14**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: This is a long one. Thanks to all of you, so much, for the reviews and alerts. _

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It took Charlie most of the week to finish the assignment – a week of non-stop work, of late hours, uneaten food, and little sleep. It was a period of intense concentration, without distractions; before he left New Orleans, he had asked Amita and his father not to call him, telling them he would be running class trials, and that he would talk to them on the weekend. He had agreed with Don and Ian that he wouldn't call them either, unless there was an emergency. There was no contact with the outside; he was on his own. There was just him, and the work.

He would work deep into the night after his companions had gone to bed; he would use that time for the things he wasn't supposed to be doing – hacking into Montreaux's email, looking up his contacts, trying to find who might be on the other end of both the cocaine smuggling and the Iranian weapons deal. It took him awhile to get into the email account, and took him longer to go through the contacts, only to find that Montreaux was extremely careful. He apparently conducted those businesses only by phone or in person. Montreaux's bank accounts were even harder to get to, but they at least yielded some clues; Charlie made notes and downloaded them onto his flash drive. If Montreaux was indicted, he would move fast to shift money around and hide transactions, but now, Charlie would have a record.

During the daytime hours, he worked on the export system, which was an exceedingly complex task in itself. As the week wore on, he began to worry that he wasn't going to finish it on time, but by Thursday midday, he had. He had downloaded the programs into Montreaux's central server and made a copy on a flash drive that Clemenceau gave him for backup. While the two men were packing the vehicle, Charlie downloaded yet another copy onto his own flash drive, and tucked it into the secret pocket in the hem of his jean jacket with a sigh of relief. He was done – he was nearly done with the assignment. Today he would be going back to New Orleans, and to Don, and as soon as he could update their handler, Joe Bishop, on the information that he'd gathered, they could start making plans for an extraction. He fervently hoped what he had would be enough – he desperately wanted to go home. If they asked him to stay to try to get more information, he would be extremely disappointed.

Clemenceau stumped by and told him gruffly that they were ready to go, and Charlie gathered up his work papers and packed them away, and made his way out to the vehicle. He took one last look around the swamp; he'd rarely been out of the cabin while he'd been there – he felt like a cave-dwelling creature that had crawled outside. The walk out to the vehicle made him realize just how hard he had pushed himself that week – he felt weak and tired; his muscles atrophied from sitting for so long, and his body drained from lack of sleep and not eating right. He clambered into the backseat gratefully, and took a deep breath. He felt inexplicably happy, in spite of the fatigue and the tension. Even if they didn't get to go home right away, at least he would get to see Don.

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Don lounged in the kitchen at the Montreaux estate late Thursday afternoon; hands loosely cupped around a mug of coffee, and for the first time in days, began to relax. He had just seen Charlie come in; one side of the kitchen looked out on the side drive, and he and Ian had seen Clemenceau's Ford Expedition pull up, and watched as Charlie, Pierre and Jean crossed the drive to enter the side door. At that point, Don lost sight of them, but it was enough to reassure him. Charlie looked tired and thinner, but he appeared to be fine. The group had gone straight upstairs to see Montreaux, and Don and Ian, who had just come in from a meeting with some of Blinkie's people, had gotten the word that Charlie was returning, and had decided to wait for him.

The fact was, they already knew that Charlie was on the move. Joe Bishop had been tracing the GPS tracker in Charlie's jean jacket, and Don had called Bishop twice a day for an update. The tracker never moved the entire week – it was obvious that Charlie had never left the house in the bayou. Still, Don's anxiety level introduced disturbing thoughts – what if they had killed Charlie and dumped him in the bayou, he wondered at one point. The tracker wouldn't be moving then, either. Bishop had reassured him, telling him that the location of the signal corresponded exactly with the location of the cabin. When the GPS chip started moving, he called and told them that Charlie was on his way back. Still, until Don actually saw his brother, he stewed. He couldn't wait for him to come downstairs, couldn't wait for Charlie to tell him that he was done, that he had what they needed. He couldn't wait to get the hell out of here.

After about an hour; it seemed like three, Guy Clemenceau came downstairs and told them that Charlie would be down soon, and that Don should wait to give him a ride; he would be done for the evening. "You will need to drop him off here in the morning," said Guy, his square face impassive. "Then you will need to leave for the day; Montreaux is expecting the mayor to visit, and he needs all unnecessary personnel to be off the grounds. Charlie will be allowed in the computer room to finish his programming."

He left the kitchen, and the cook, who had been puttering around behind them, spoke crossly in a heavy Cajun accent. "I think the man is going crazy," he said. "He has important visitors coming tomorrow and wants food prepared, but he is sending away all my serving staff. He said he would have the Clemenceaus bring the food up from the kitchen to his office. Those oafs will probably spill the soup on the mayor's lap."

Ian frowned. "Montreaux is sending away your staff?"

The cook gave a curt nod. "He is sending away nearly everyone. I hear that the housekeeping staff will work tonight to clean and they also will be given the day off. The only ones who are working tomorrow will be Montreaux's men in the computer room." He shrugged. "At least, that is what I hear. I ask you, how can you attend to your guests without serving staff and housekeeping? _Mon Dieux!"_

Don and Ian exchanged a glance, but said nothing; the man's question appeared to be rhetorical anyway – he had gone on muttering under his breath, but clearly was talking to himself. Don knew that Ian was thinking the same thing; something was going down tomorrow.

The inside door to the kitchen opened, and Don looked up as Charlie paused in the doorway. For a heartbeat, they exchanged a look – an expression of concern and relief identically mirrored in the dark eyes, and then Charlie said, "I'm starving. Can we go get dinner?"

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The three of them went back to Fish and got a corner booth, ordering big bowls of spicy steaming gumbo with French bread, and cold beers. It was around 5:00 p.m., too early for a band, but there was a sizable crowd already. Some of the downtown crowd had stopped in after work, and the place had a satisfactory noise level.

Don stared at Charlie across the table, his eyes searching his brother's face. "How'd it go?"

Charlie had been looking back, his eyes containing a question of their own, and seemingly satisfied, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, with a quick glance sideways to make sure no one was within listening range. He spoke quietly. "Okay. I finished the project. The deadline is tomorrow morning. There's something going down tomorrow. I'm supposed to be there at seven to make sure the program is loaded, and to show Montreaux where the files are located and how to navigate them. I'm thinking he wants to show them to someone, and he would rather do it himself. He told me that he wanted me and one of his computer men to be available, in case we were needed, but we were to stay in the room – he would call down by phone if he had a question. It sounds like he's going to meet with someone, and doesn't want us to see who it is."

Ian nodded. "We were told to stay away tomorrow, and the cook mentioned that he would be there to prepare food, but Montreaux was sending away all his staff. It sounds like only Montreaux's closest staff - the Clemenceaus and probably Pierre - will be there, along with the cook, who won't leave the kitchen. The cook said the mayor is visiting, but I'm sure that's just what Montreaux told him. Something is definitely up. We need to meet at the room after this; get hold of Bishop. We need to tell him what's going on, and we should probably plan the extraction."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, I'm ready; I think I have what we need." He broke off as the waitress showed up, bearing a tray laden with huge bowls of thick steaming gumbo, and the rest of the next several minutes were devoted to eating.

Don watched as Charlie devoured his food. "What, didn't you eat out there?"

Charlie spoke through a mouthful of French bread, soaked with broth. "Not a lot. I was busy, and Jean's and Pierre's cooking skills were limited to heating frozen pizza and frozen chicken." His eyes glinted mischievously, and a grin played around his lips. "Sort of like your cooking."

Don's lips quirked as he watched his brother dive back into his gumbo. It was good to see him back, alive and well, and looking and sounding like the brother he knew. He knew something else; he was going to push for the extraction tonight. There was no sense sending Charlie back in there in the morning if they had what they needed.

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Charlie sat on the metal desk in the small office in the parking garage a few hours later, and looked at Don and Ian. Ian was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, his expression, as always, inscrutable. Don was standing rigidly in the middle of the floor, his face lined with frustration, his eyes hard. After they left the restaurant, Ian had called Joe Bishop from the parking lot, who had told him that he would relay the information to Washington, and set up a meeting for two hours later. It was now meeting time, and they had called Joe Bishop on the secure landline, which Ian had installed in the office sometime during the week before.

"I don't understand why Charlie has to go in tomorrow," said Don. "He has what you need."

Bishop's voice came over the speaker, firmly. "I talked to the directors in Washington. We need him to go to Montreaux's estate in the morning because if he doesn't show, Montreaux will suspect something and call off his meeting. Plus, we aren't ready to tip our hand. We'd like Charlie to get a look at the visitors if he can. Depending on what he reports out, we may decided to act immediately, which means the extraction – for all three of you – would happen right then."

"What about Agent 1?" asked Ian.

"Agent 1 would need to come out also, at the time of extraction. We've already made contact and passed on the plan."

Ian glanced at Don. "So what is the plan?"

"Charlie is to go in tomorrow morning as Montreaux requested," came Bishop's voice. "All of you will be packed and ready to go, with your luggage in your vehicles, but don't check out of your hotels, in case we need to call off the extraction. If we proceed with taking you out tomorrow, we'll handle the checkout after the fact. Don, you will be waiting, available, in your rental car, and Ian, you will do the same. At some point, Montreaux should release Charlie, and Charlie can call for Don to come and pick him up. The two of you will go to a location where you can talk, and Charlie can call in and give us a report. If we decide to extract at that point, we will get messages out to Ian and Agent 1. All of you will then proceed to the New Orleans Naval Air Station, off Russell Avenue. It's about 20 minutes south of downtown. We'll have a jet waiting for you, which will take you to Washington, D.C. for a full report out."

Bishop paused for a moment; then continued. "If, based on Charlie's report, we decide we still need you, you will simply return your luggage to your hotels, and continue in your assignments."

Charlie was frowning. "I'm not sure I'll get a chance to see the visitors. I'll be in the computer room."

"We'll have observers stationed outside the estate," replied Bishop. "Hopefully, they'll get a look and you won't have to worry about it. We'll send you a text message that morning on your cell phone, telling you whether you need to make the attempt. If we do, you'll need to figure out how to manage it. It might be a moot point – you may even be asked to meet with them – we don't know yet. In addition, we should have a contingency plan because of the risk. Don, while you're waiting for Charlie, I would recommend that you park on the road behind the rear of the estate – on Benjamin Street. Charlie, if something happens and you need to get out in a hurry, you should slip out and go through the rear of the property – it's wooded, so there's cover - to the back gate, and meet Don on Benjamin. Is everyone clear on what we have to do?"

Don was silent. Charlie glanced at him; then spoke into the phone. "Yes."

"Okay," replied Bishop. "We may go through this drill more than once as we near the extraction point, if we don't extract tomorrow. You'll need to be flexible."

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Charlie and Don walked to the hotel from the parking garage. Don was still silent, and Charlie looked up at him as if trying to gauge his mood, and then shot a look around to make sure there wasn't anyone close enough to overhear. "Don," he began; then stopped.

Don glanced at him. "Yeah?" Charlie's expression captured his full attention – it was tortured, filled with regret.

"About what happened last Friday night - ," Charlie said, hesitantly. "I need to talk to you about that sometime, when we get home."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, you don't owe me any explanations. You did what you had to do."

"Yes, I do," Charlie insisted, intensity in his eyes. "I need to talk about it."

Don's expression softened. "Yeah, okay – we'll talk." He paused, glanced around and lowered his voice, looking back at Charlie reassuringly. "It's almost over, Buddy."

Charlie's face cleared slightly, and he sighed. "Yeah," he said, and Don could hear the relief in his voice. "I know."

They walked into the hotel and down the hall to their room, both hoping that it would be the last night they would stay there, the last night they would be restricted by the listening device, the last night that they would have to keep inside all the things that needed to be said.

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Charlie could hardly sit still on the way to the estate the next morning. The prospect of ending this, of going home, was so tantalizing, he wanted it so badly, that it had generated a case of nerves. He was both eager to be done with the assignment, and worried that something would happen that would require him to stay longer. He fingered the flash drive in the hem of his denim jacket – he'd downloaded the information on it and sent it to Washington the night before, but he brought it with him again, in case anything changed, or he came upon anything new that they might need.

His fidgeting earned him a pointed look from Don as they approached the gate, and he took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. "Okay," he said, as Don pulled up to the side entrance, "I'll see you later."

He slipped out of the car, well aware that Don was watching him, knowing that the minute he was inside, Don would pull out through the gate and drive around the long block to the back of the estate, and park there. The thought that his brother was close by was comforting; it gave him confidence, and he sent Jean Clemenceau, who was waiting in the hallway, a smile.

"You can go stop at the kitchen for a coffee, some breakfast if you want," Jean said, his normal gruffness subdued. He seemed almost apologetic. "After that, though, Jack wants you in the computer room with Mike – both of you should stay there until he tells you to come out."

Charlie nodded, and stepped into the kitchen for a big mug of coffee; then followed Jean down the hallway to the antique elevator and rode up to the first floor. The place seemed deserted - there was no sign of life other than Jean and the cook. Charlie didn't really need the coffee, but it might come in handy if he needed an excuse to leave the room later – he could say he needed to use the bathroom. Mike Hamill was in the room already, and he returned Charlie's greeting with a sour grunt. He apparently viewed Charlie as a threat to his position, and Montreaux's selection of Charlie to write what was obviously an important program irritated him. Charlie sighed as he sat down at a computer terminal, and took a sip of his coffee. It was going to be a long morning.

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J. Scott Marsh watched out of his rearview mirror in the parking garage of the Imperial Hotel as the floral delivery van pulled up and sat, idling. He spoke into his cell phone. "All right, let's go."

He slipped out of his vehicle, and simultaneously, three other men appeared out of the corners of the garage, all of them registered separately at the hotel, each with his own vehicle, none of them with any apparent connection to each other. Marsh opened the rear doors, and the men climbed inside. Instead of flowers, there were seats in the back, and they sat facing each other in near darkness – there were no windows in the rear of the vehicle. Marsh's guests were dark, Middle Eastern in appearance, and he looked across at one of them, whose real name was Khalid, but who was registered as a Spanish citizen, under the name of Alvarez. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well," said Khalid. His dark eyes were hooded; his expression imperious.

"I think you are going to be very impressed with what you see this morning," said Marsh.

Khalid's eyes flickered. "I certainly hope so."

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The man in coveralls in the grassy median in front of the Montreaux estate paused and leaned on his rake, pretending to wipe his forehead. Trolley tracks ran down the median; the trolley was a favorite of visitors to the city, who rode this length of it to look at the historic homes on St. Charles. The man was an agent, but he was posing as a city maintenance worker, and he watched as a floral delivery van stopped at the gate, then went through as the gate opened, passing out of sight as it wound through the landscaping on its way back to the mansion. He spoke into his headset. "We might have a delivery – could really be flowers, but it could be something else. A floral delivery van was just let in through the gate."

On the other end, Joe Bishop frowned. "Okay. We'd better wait awhile. If the van doesn't come out right away, it's probably them. We'll give 'em a half hour."

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Charlie's first indication that the visitors were there came when Guy Clemenceau stuck his square head in to check on them. "You guys staying put?" he asked unnecessarily, and got a nod from Charlie and a indifferent look from Mike as his response. Guy grunted and pulled his head back out, and shut the door. Charlie tensed, aware of the cell phone in his pocket, which was set to 'vibrate;' wondering if he was going to be instructed to go look at them.

A half hour passed, and Charlie was just beginning to relax again, when his phone vibrated. He glanced at Mike, who was facing away from him engrossed in something on his own computer terminal, and pulled the phone out. '_Need you to reconnoiter,' _the text message read. '_Observers could not get a look at the visitors.'_

Charlie felt his heart give a nervous leap – they needed him after all. He glanced at Mike's back, wondering how he could possibly leave without making the man suspicious. His previous plan of saying he had to use the bathroom would be suspect after Guy had pointedly told them to stay put. His mouth dry, he lowered the cell phone to his lap and sent a text message back. '_Call me.'_

He switched the phone to 'ring,' set it on the desk, and grabbed the mouse, pretending to be at work when the phone rang. Mike turned to look at him. Charlie grabbed the phone, and flipped it open. "Yes, sir," he said, to Joe Bishop on the other end. "Yes, I'll be right up."

He saw Mike's sour look intensify, and he flipped the phone shut. "Montreaux wants me upstairs," he said casually, as he rose from his desk. "I'll be back."

He forced the tension out of his body language as he moved toward the door, opened it, and strode outside. As soon as he had shut the door, he hurried down the hall, looking around. The emptiness of the place was a bit eerie, and his mind raced, wondering how he was going to pull this off. He pulled out his phone and dialed Bishop, speaking quietly. "I don't know how to do this," he said. "I think they're probably up in Montreaux's study, but I don't have an excuse for going in – I was told specifically to stay in the computer room with Mike." He shot nervous looks around him as he spoke, and the hand holding the cell phone shook a little.

"You've already compromised yourself, most likely," came Bishop's terse reply. "If Mike says anything to Montreaux, he'll find out that Montreaux didn't call you. Here's what you do. Go upstairs and walk into the room, tell Montreaux that Mike told you to come up, and get a look at the targets. As soon as Montreaux says that he didn't call you, apologize, and hightail it out of there. Go right down to the bottom floor, and out the back – we'll do an immediate extraction. I'll call Don and tell him to be waiting for you. We've got a team on stand-by, ready to go in, but they're a few blocks away, and are standing down. I'll try to mobilize them before the targets get out of there."

"Okay," said Charlie. "I'm going up now." He hung up and took a deep breath, then hurried down the remaining hallway to the antique elevator, and paused. There was a service stairway right next to it, which would be a quieter way to go up, especially if anyone was in the hallway upstairs, but he needed to behave as if he had every right to be up there – Mike had supposedly told him to go. He pushed the button and stepped inside the elevator when it came down, his heart pounding.

There was no one in the hallway on the second floor, which gave him a flash of relief – but just a brief one, because a few steps later, he was at the door to Montreaux's study. He steadied himself, took a breath, and pasted a slight smile on his face as he opened the door.

As he entered, Jean Clemenceau was immediately at his side with a perturbed look on his face, and every head in the room jerked toward him. Charlie turned toward Montreaux. "You called for me?" he asked, then glanced around the room at the visitors. Four men; three of them were Middle Eastern. He focused on the three of them, trying burn facial details into his memory before he turned back to Montreaux.

Montreaux was frowning, and Charlie could read deep suspicion in his eyes. "I didn't call you," he demurred.

Charlie feigned surprise. "Mike told me you called, and to come up to your office." He took another look. That man had slight scar, the one facing Montreaux was the leader, concentrate on him – long thin face, thin lips, thick brows…

"I didn't, but I'm glad you stopped up – I wanted to introduce you," Montreaux said. To Charlie's surprise, when he looked back at Montreaux the man had seemingly relaxed. Charlie realized that he was simply trying to put a good face on the interruption, trying to keep his guests from being spooked. "This is Charlie Archer," said Montreaux to his guests, smiling. "- the architect of the system."

At that, the man across the desk from Montreaux relaxed and nodded, and Charlie nodded back. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said, backing toward the door, taking one more quick look, this time taking in the fourth man in the room. He looked American; he was tall, with dark hair flecked lightly with gray. As Charlie's gaze shifted, his eyes met Pierre Montreaux's. Pierre was looking at him strangely, almost knowingly, and a sudden thought hit Charlie. Was Pierre Montreaux Agent 1?

"It's good to meet you." Charlie said to the men, as he reached for the knob behind him and opened the door. "I'm sorry for the interruption. Let me know if you need anything," he said to Jack Montreaux, and slipped back out.

It was all he could do to keep from running down the hall, and this time, he didn't use the elevator – he went down the service stairs, taking them as quickly as he dared, unaware that in the room upstairs, Montreaux had stepped over to Jean Clemenceau, and whispered, "Follow him."

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End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 15**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks to all for the alerts and reviews - I very much appreciate them._

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Charlie reached the first floor, and took the second set of stairs that led down to the bottom level and the kitchen. He flew down the hallway to the side door, bypassing the kitchen, and hurried outside, ducking into the landscaping on the far end of the parking area. Pushing into a thick section of shrubbery, he shot a quick glance back toward the house, hoping the cook hadn't seen him cross the open space, and pulled out his cell phone, hitting speed dial for Don. "Don? Did Bishop call you? Okay, I'm out, heading through the back. Watch for me."

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Pierre and the Clemenceaus had hurried out into the hallway, only seconds behind Charlie, to find the elevator empty and available. "He took the stairs," said Jean, and they followed suit, hurtling down them and out through the stairwell doorway onto the first floor. All three of them immediately looked to their right, down the long hallway that led to the computer room.

"I'll check," said Pierre, and he hurried down the hall, past the ballroom and the foyer, and poked his head into the room. Mike looked up, surprised. "Did Archer come back down?" asked Pierre.

Mike shook his head, and Pierre shut the door, and sprinted back down the hall. "Not in there," he panted.

"Maybe he went to get something from the kitchen," said Guy. Jean was already reaching for the door to the stairway that led down to the bottom level, and the three of them hurried down it. Seconds later they were at the kitchen, and as Jean pushed through the door, the cook looked at him with an odd expression.

"You see Archer?" demanded Jean, and the cook nodded, wide-eyed.

"He just went out the side," he said. "I saw him through the windows. He went into the brush on the other side of the driveway – I think he was going through the back."

"Shit!" Jean exploded, and the three of them barged back through the door, barreling down the remaining hallway and out the side entrance. Jean headed for the Ford Expedition, waving Pierre and Guy toward the back of the estate. "Follow him," he barked. "I'll take the vehicle, and drive around the block and meet you there."

He jumped in the Expedition, and had his phone out and was dialing Montreaux before he even started down the drive.

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Montreaux picked up the phone in his study and listened, his face turning oddly still, like a wax impression. "Don't let him get away," he said. "Bring him back here." He hung up the phone and looked at Marsh, Khalid, and his men, who were staring back, silently.

"We have a problem," said Montreaux.

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The agent in the median in the front of the estate watched as the black Ford Expedition zoomed through the barely open front gates and cut a sharp left, heading west on St. Charles. He spoke into his headset. "We've got a black Ford Expedition out, heading west on St. Charles. He's making another left at the first block, heading toward Benjamin Street."

On the other end, Joe Bishop said, "Hold for a minute." He switched lines. "Don, you see Charlie yet?"

"Yeah," said Don, who was sitting in the Monte Carlo on Benjamin, outside the wrought iron fence that marked the back boundary of the Montreaux estate, "I see him – he's coming through the brush toward the gate now."

"Get out as fast as you can," Bishop said. "You've got company coming – black Ford Expedition."

Bishop hung up, flipped the line back to the agent in the median. "Anyone else coming?"

"Negative."

"Okay. Keep an eye out for that floral delivery van – let me know immediately if it comes out."

"Roger that."

Bishop dialed in another number. "French Street Team Leader," came the voice on the other end.

"You guys ready?" asked Bishop.

"Yes, sir, we're heading out now."

"When you take the estate, be advised, there are civilians on the property. The Archers should be clear, but there is a cook in the kitchen and possibly others, who are not involved. The targets will be armed. Proceed with caution."

"Roger that. Anticipate arrival in ten minutes. Out."

Bishop punched in another number. "This is Tran Air."

"Ian here. I can talk."

"Ian, the extraction is underway. The Archers are out, en route to the airport, with a black Ford Expedition possibly in pursuit. They will be heading east on St. Charles, toward I-90 south. Give them a call; they may need backup. If they don't, get yourself to the airport – meet them there. Call Agent 1 for me – I need to keep these lines open."

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Charlie charged through the last of the brush and fumbled with the gate, realizing after a quick attempt to open it that it was locked; the bolt appeared to be activated electronically. He could hear Pierre and Guy's voices and the sound of them crashing through brush behind him, and he shot a panicked glance at Don through the wrought iron bars, and then took a quick look over his shoulder. As he did, he noticed a small metal-encased electrical box on the ground in the shrubbery, about two yards behind him, and he darted over to it. Sure enough, there was a button. He pressed it, and heard the click of the latch behind him, and turned and dashed back to the gate. The door opened easily; he slipped through it and made the car in two large bounds, running around the front of it to the passenger door.

His computer case was sitting on the front seat and Don lifted it out of the way as he got in, then shoved it at Charlie as he threw the car into drive, pulling away from the curb with a screech of tires.

"They're right behind me," panted Charlie, clasping his computer to his chest, and Don gunned the gas, flying east on Benjamin, and made a left at the next intersection, heading back up toward St. Charles Avenue.

Charlie looked at him, wide-eyed. "Shouldn't we stay away from St. Charles?"

Don jabbed a finger at the area under the glove box. "Get rid of that bug."

Charlie stared at him, realizing that he might just have given away their direction; he was so rattled by the pursuit that he'd forgotten about it. He reached forward with one arm around the computer case still sitting in his lap, felt under the dash and pulled. The electronic device came free with a snap, leaving a dangling wire underneath the glove box. Charlie rolled down the window and tossed it out, and it bounced away on the pavement behind them. He rolled up the window and looked back at Don.

"We don't have a choice," Don said tersely. "Benjamin dead ends in two blocks, and St. Charles is the fastest way to get to I-90. Bishop called – he said the Expedition was right behind us. Put your seatbelt on - this might be a rough ride."

Charlie turned his head and looked anxiously over his shoulder. They had already turned off Benjamin, and were barreling up the side street – the Expedition wasn't in sight – yet.

He turned back around in time to grab the armrest with his free hand as Don veered sharply right onto St. Charles, the other arm still wrapped tightly around the computer case. As soon as they were around the corner and he regained his equilibrium, he reached for his seatbelt, his heart thumping. He shot a glance at his brother; Don gripped the wheel tightly and looked grim, but in control, and Charlie tried to relax. _'Don knows what he's doing_,' he told himself. '_We'll_ _be fine._'

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Jean Clemenceau screeched to a stop at the back gate, and Pierre and Guy, who had come out of the gate and were standing on the side of the street, ran toward him. Jean rolled the window down. "Get the automatics out of the back!" he yelled. They veered toward the rear of the vehicle, pulling assault rifles out of the rear from under a blanket, and ran forward, Pierre jumping in the front passenger seat, and Guy clambering in the rear seat, swearing as he barked his shin on the running board. Jean floored it, heading east on Benjamin. "I didn't see him," he growled, "Did you?"

"I saw him through the trees," panted Guy, sweating heavily. "He climbed into a black Monte Carlo – couldn't see the driver, but that was Don Archer's car – I'm sure it was him. They took off – same direction you're headed now. Must have turned off on a side street, but we didn't get out on the sidewalk fast enough to see which one."

"_Merde_. They could be anywhere by now," growled Jean. "We gotta take them out, or we're all dead men." He pulled out his cell phone and hit a button, and lifted the phone to his ear. "Mike – pull up the surveillance – the device in Archer's car."

There was a momentary hesitation; then Mike's voice came back over the phone. "The bug's dead. What's going on?"

"Check out the GPS tracker – we put it in the rear cushion – maybe they didn't find that one."

Mike's voice sounded in his ear. "Yeah, that's still there, apparently – I got a blip on the screen. They're headed east on St. Charles, about three blocks from here."

"Okay," said Jean. He looked at Pierre, who had remained silent, his lips in a tight line. "Get on the phone, call one of our lieutenants – try Sammy first, his territory's closest. We could use some help."

Pierre pulled out his cell phone and poked at it, bringing up the number.

Jean spoke back into the phone. "Mike, stay on the line – keep trackin' 'em, let me know if they turn off St. Charles. While you're doing that, get on another line and call up to Montreaux, tell him what's goin' on."

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"How in the hell could you let this happen?" demanded J. Scott Marsh.

Jack Montreaux's eyes flashed. "Ian Crocker has been working for me for months with no problems. The Archers were his recommendation and worked successful deals for me with my cocaine business. They have obviously had this set up for months – trying to get inside my cocaine business. I'm sure they stumbled on the weapons deal during the process."

Khalid was pacing restlessly. "We need to leave, now. We must go get the van."

Montreaux shook his head. "I wouldn't – chances are they will be watching for it. I think you should leave, yes, but on foot – go out through the back, split up, get a few blocks away and catch a cab."

Marsh gave Khalid a curt nod. "He's right. Take separate cabs and have them drop you a few blocks from the hotel, make sure you aren't followed, and walk back to your rooms and wait for me. We will regroup there."

Khalid jerked his head at his men, and gave Montreaux a last icy stare. "If we are caught, your ineptitude will not go unpunished," he stated coldly, and then turned on his heel and left the room.

Montreaux looked at Marsh as the door closed behind them. "This isn't over yet. They should leave for their own security – and ours – it wouldn't be good for any of us to be found together. If we can take out Charlie Archer, however, there will be no one to testify – he is the only one who has seen us together, and who can describe the visitors. And even though he's seen you, he has no idea who you are. If we can get him, we can fix this."

Marsh snorted. "If you think the Iranians will do business with you after this, you're crazy."

Montreaux smiled regretfully. "I hold no illusions. Now, I am simply trying to stay out of jail. I am sure I will be charged with cocaine dealing at the least, which I will deny – I will claim no knowledge of it. I would prefer, however, not to be charged with treason. If I were you, old friend, I would follow your visitors -," he broke off mid-sentence. Even through the thick walls of the mansion, they could hear the sound of car doors slamming outside the house. Marsh's sour expression turned to one of panic, and he jerked his head to look at the door, as if he expected men to come through it any minute.

"Ah, _c'est dommage_," Montreaux said, smiling darkly. "They are here already. You are too late. Perhaps you should get downstairs, go to the parlor on the first floor. You can tell them you were waiting to see me, and I hadn't called you up yet – that you have no idea what is going on." He stood there, still smiling with grim satisfaction as he watched Marsh bolt through the door, and then went to his desk and picked up the phone. If he was going down, the insufferable Marsh was going down with him.

"Mike," he said, "I need you to enable the destruct feature in our computer system. Yes. All of it – legitimate and non-legitimate. We are about to have an unfortunate system crash."

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Jean Clemenceau swore, and snapped his phone shut. They were sitting in traffic, at a light two blocks from the I-90 ramp.

"What?" asked Pierre.

"Mike said there's a bunch of men at the house – some kind of SWAT, or tactical team. He said Montreaux just told him to wipe out the computer system – he's going to lose the GPS tracker."

Guy looked at the back of Pierre's head. "Sammy's on him, though, right? And we know they just got onto I-90 South."

Pierre nodded, his cell phone at his ear. "Yeah, I still have Sammy on the line. He says he got on the next exit down, before them; they just passed him and he got a good look. He met Don Archer a week ago – says it's them for sure." He broke off and listened for a moment. "He's right on their tail. They're still on the highway, getting ready to cross the river."

The light changed, and Jean surged through the intersection, weaving around traffic. "I wonder where they're goin'," Guy said. "If they were headin' toward the airport, they would've taken I-10."

"I'll bet you they're going to Alvin Callender Field – the Naval Air Station," said Jean, snapping his fingers. He put both hands on the wheel and powered the Expedition up the ramp so fast that it went airborne at the top, and the traffic in the near lane veered to let them in. He reached out his hand toward Pierre. "Gimme your phone."

Pierre handed it to him without a word, and Jean put it up to his ear. "Sammy – we think they're tryin' to make the Naval Air Station. We can't let 'em get onto the base, we'll never get to 'em with the security there. You need to slow 'em down, force 'em off the road, then just keep goin'. We're right behind you – we'll come along and finish the job."

He thrust the phone back at Pierre. "Get your guns ready. We can't stop on the highway. We'll have to blast 'em as we go by, then have Sammy circle back around to make sure we got the job done."

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J. Scott Marsh made it to the first floor; then forced himself to stop and think. Montreaux's suggestion that he sit in the parlor and pretend he hadn't talked to Montreaux yet was weak, and Jack Montreaux knew it. Marsh's mere presence here would indict him – even if he told his superiors he was doing investigative work on his own, the story wasn't credible. He was too highly placed for that, and too ambitious. They never would believe that he hadn't told them of his suspicions, in order to get the credit for foiling the scheme. No, he could not be found here when they came in. He needed to hide.

Hiding was certainly a last resort; the tactical team would tear the place apart, but there was one spot that Marsh knew of that might work. He had spent afternoons in the mansion as a child, and he and Jack had spent hours playing hide and seek – Marsh knew all the best places, and he headed for one of them now. He could hear feet pounding down the hallway beneath him as ducked into the dining room and dashed over to the dumbwaiter, pulling frantically on the cord to bring up the lift. Holding both cords tightly, he stepped inside onto the platform and closed the chute door, just as the hallway door outside the dining room burst open.

His muscles straining with the effort, Marsh slowly played the rope, lowering himself about two thirds of the way down, until he felt the ledge – a support beam between two wall joists. It was smaller and narrower than he remembered, and he stepped onto it awkwardly, carefully, his grasp on the ropes loosening as his weight transferred from the dumbwaiter platform to the ledge. He reached out with one hand and steadied himself by grabbing a wall joist, and now securely on the ledge, quietly lowered the dumbwaiter platform down to the kitchen. He was standing in the dumbwaiter chute, midway between the bottom and the first floor, immersed in darkness, his only enemy a flashlight.

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Charlie twisted to look behind him, still clutching his computer case, and Don glanced in the rearview mirror as he spoke into the phone to Ian. "I still don't see the Expedition. Maybe we lost them."

Ian's voice came through, crackling with static. "I just got on the highway, and I'm moving fast – we'll find out soon enough – if they're on the highway, they're probably between you and me."

Don trained his eyes forward, and Charlie turned back around in his seat, as a white Econoline van pulled from behind them and accelerated, coming alongside them to their left. The Oakwood Shopping Center whizzed by, the Monte Carlo started around a bend in the highway, and Don said into the phone, "We just passed exit 8; it looks like the next exit is the one for Route 23 South."

He didn't get a chance to hear the response, because in the next instant, they felt an impact and a sudden lurch as the white van, without warning, plowed into the side of their vehicle, and the Monte Carlo swerved toward the side of the road. Charlie gasped as Don dropped the phone and gripped the steering wheel, trying to muscle the car back into the lane. The van gave way a bit, but the respite was short-lived; it immediately smacked back into them hard, pushing them sideways again as Don desperately tromped on the brake. They had a fleeting glimpse of a concrete piling for an overpass coming at them much too fast, and then the world exploded.

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End Chapter 15

_A/N: You just traded one cliffie for another, I'm afraid. (Evil laughter.) 'Til Tuesday..._


	16. Chapter 16

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 16**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and alerts. And now for a hint of the plot that inspired the title of this story..._

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The airbag filled Charlie's universe with a bone-jarring jolt, and left him stunned for a moment as it receded. He was vaguely aware that his face hurt from the contact with the bag, and his chest ached from where the computer bag had smashed against it. He pushed at the deflating air bag, shook his head and his vision began to clear, although his thought processes were still foggy. They were on the side of the highway; a concrete barrier wall to their right, the concrete support pillar for the overpass directly in front of them. The front end of the Monte Carlo was completely crushed, although it hadn't penetrated the passenger compartment. Apparently, Don had managed to slow the vehicle down enough to keep that from happening – either that; or the car had one hell of a safety rating for front-end collisions. However, the engine and transmission had been destroyed, and the vehicle was drifting slowly backward, Charlie realized suddenly.

"Don -," he began, uttering the name as he looked to his left; then stopped abruptly. Don was slumped in the corner created by the seat and the side door, his head against the window, clearly unconscious. Charlie felt a surge of panic rush through him, and he reached out shakily with his left arm, and shook his brother gently. "Don!" No response. The emergency brake was in the console between the seats, and Charlie pulled on it frantically, stopping the rolling vehicle in its tracks.

"Oh, my God," he breathed, and fumbled for Don's wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there, to his infinite relief, and then he noticed that Don's chest was rising and falling with regularity.

He could hear a voice coming from Don's phone, in the direction of the floor – it sounded like Ian, but Charlie couldn't see the phone, so he began to reach for his own cell phone with one hand, the other still clutching his computer bag to his chest. He gingerly turned his neck, which was already stiffening, to look behind them, but he couldn't see the white van – in fact, no one had stopped – the traffic was still streaming past them on the highway. They had just rounded a bend, and no one could see the accident in time to pull over behind them, unless they knew in advance that it was there. Charlie could only hope that someone had called 911.

He had just managed to unbuckle his seat belt and work his cell phone out of his pocket, when he heard the car windshield explode. His computer case was jerking against his chest, and he instinctively grabbed it with both hands to steady it, wincing and ducking his head to his right, as bullets thudded around him. He barely had time to draw in a breath of terror and to catch a glimpse of the black Expedition as it sped past, semi-automatics protruding from the windows, and for a split second, he sat there in shock, staring out through the shattered windshield as the Expedition disappeared around the bend. He looked down at his computer bag, dumbly, it was riddled with bullet holes, the computer inside undoubtedly destroyed, but it had saved his life. The thought flashed through his head in a split second; then a spear of agonized fear shot through him. He dropped the bag, turning toward Don and reaching for him with both hands. "Don!"

He pawed at him feverishly, trying to turn him. Don was still clearly unconscious, and although Charlie couldn't see any sign of other injury, he found it hard to believe that neither of them had been hit by the hail of bullets. There were bullet holes in the center and the right side of Don's seat, but he was leaning left, and apparently, his slumped position and the support between the windshield and the side window had prevented the bullets from hitting him. Still, Charlie frantically pulled at Don's denim jacket, trying to be sure. He was so immersed in his search that he didn't notice the two vehicles pulling up behind him, one arrival separated from the other by only seconds.

"Charlie!" Charlie jumped at the voice, and then turned to stare with a shell-shocked expression at Ian, who was wrestling open the passenger door. It opened with a creak and a groan, protesting the fact that the Monte Carlo's frame had been twisted by the impact. Ian's face was filled with concern, and he took in Charlie's condition and the bullet holes in Charlie's headrest and his computer bag. Somehow, impossibly, the mathematician had escaped the hit. Ian's eyes traveled to Don, and he darted around to the driver's side of the vehicle, and yanked open Don's door.

Charlie found his voice, and the words poured out. "Someone pushed us off the road – I think Don hit his head on the window -," He stopped momentarily as he took in the smear of blood on the window of the now open door – blood from Don's head. Then he babbled on, as Ian's hands moved carefully over Don's inert torso, "can you see any bullet wounds? They shot at us – the Expedition-,"

"Charlie, calm down," a familiar female voice came from behind him, and Charlie jerked his head around in a stiff awkward movement, to find Charlotte bent over in the open passenger doorway, looking at him. She put a gentle hand on his arm, and pulled. "Get out of the car."

Charlie looked wildly back at Ian, who said, "Relax, Charlie, just do as she says."

"But-," Charlie stammered, and Ian held up a hand.

"It's okay, Charlie – Charlotte is Agent 1."

Charlie stared at him; then at Don, then back at Charlotte, who would have laughed at the expression on his face if the situation hadn't been so serious. He grabbed his computer case and slowly slid out of the vehicle and rose shakily to his feet, and then stared up at Charlotte, who was looking at Ian. "We need to get Charlie out of here," she said tersely.

Ian nodded. "Get him to the airport. You and Charlie will continue with the extraction. I'll stay with Don."

Charlie was beginning to come to his senses, and he protested wildly, as Charlotte pulled on his arm. "NO! I'm not going anywhere without Don!"

Ian trained sharp eyes on him over the roof of the vehicle. "Charlie, he's in more danger with you here than if you were gone. You're the one who has seen the weapons dealers, the one who understands the computer downloads. The men involved in the weapons deal don't care about Don - they're gunning for you. We'll get him to a hospital and have him put under protection; I promise you, I won't leave his side. You still have a responsibility to this mission, and to your country. You need to leave, _now_."

Charlie paused, frozen by indecision, and Charlotte pulled more firmly on his arm. "Charlie, you know he's right. Come with me – let Ian do his job. Don will be okay."

He finally gave in to the pull of her arm, stumbling after her, still clutching the torn computer case, with one last agonized look over his shoulder. She hurried him past Ian's vehicle to hers, a white Cadillac STS. Charlie could hear a siren in the distance as he closed the passenger side door. He had no idea how she was going to pull out from a dead stop into the traffic streaming around the curve in the highway, but somehow she did, and he got a last glimpse of Ian bending over his brother, before he was whisked away around the bend.

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J. Scott Marsh stood on the ledge in the dumbwaiter chute, thinking frantically. Chances were good that the people behind this sting were from his own organization, the CIA. Granted, he was in a high position, but not at the very top, where a mission of this magnitude would be directed. It wasn't impossible that he hadn't heard about it, in fact, it wasn't even odd that he hadn't been called in to consult on it – he had never divulged his relationship with Jack Montreaux, and apparently, the Agency had never uncovered the fact that his college education had been paid for by Jacques Montreaux, Jack's father. The college grant had been listed as coming from a local scholarship foundation, and the CIA obviously had never picked up the connection. Either that, or they already suspected him to be part of the scheme, and Marsh didn't see how that was possible. No, they more than likely had no idea of his involvement. That was the good news.

After his initial relief at finding a secure hiding place, however, the bad news had dawned on him. Agents would be crawling all over the place for days, looking for records, combing the computers – he wouldn't be able to stay on his precarious perch for even twenty-four hours, more than likely, before fatigue forced him down. At some point, he would have to surface, and the more he thought about it, he decided the time should be now. As a double agent, he'd bluffed his way through many risky situations. This one, however, if he pulled it off, would undoubtedly be the performance of his career.

There was the creak of a door below him, and light suddenly poured into the bottom of the shaft. He froze and glanced downward as a head came in through the dumbwaiter opening in the kitchen. The man craned his neck, trying see upward in the darkness, and Marsh tensed, wondering if the light below would be enough to illuminate him. "All clear," the man yelled, and Marsh relaxed as the door swung shut again. The voices below receded, and Marsh quietly pulled on the dumbwaiter cord, and brought the platform upward. As it came even with him, he gripped the cords firmly and stepped onto it carefully; then began to play the rope, lowering himself to the floor of the shaft, his arms shaking with the effort. There, he pushed the door open a bit.

The kitchen was empty – it had obviously been cleared and marked off the search list. The trick would be getting out of the kitchen unseen. Once out in the lower hallway, he could pretend he had just come in from the outside, through the side door. Marsh climbed out of the shaft and moved quickly to the kitchen door, cracking it open. He could see down the hallway to his right into the interior of the building, but he had no way of knowing if someone was in the short section of hall to his left, standing just inside the side door. He could hear nothing in that direction, however, so he took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped out. The hallway was empty. He was clear.

There, his resolve wavered for just a moment, as he shot a glance out the side door. He could possibly slip outside and make his way off the grounds, but if he were caught, he wouldn't be able to explain it away. No, it was safest to proceed with his original plan – to act as if he belonged there. He turned and strode down the hallway toward the elevator, pulling out his CIA credentials.

As he reached the elevator, the doors opened, and he found himself staring at two men in protective gear, holding assault rifles. They stared back, and Marsh flipped his ID at them. "I'm looking for the man in charge here," he said.

He had purposefully kept their inspection to just a glimpse, and covered up his name, but they had seen enough of the CIA ID to accept him as belonging there. "Yes, sir, step inside. We'll take you up."

Moments later, Marsh was in the computer room, holding his hand out to a man named Jerry Weir, the tactical team leader. "I was in the area on business," said Marsh, with another brief flip of his badge. The less people who actually knew his name, the better. "I was told to report here immediately and offer my assistance. Can you fill me in? Or perhaps there is someone from the Agency on site?"

"Agent Joe Bishop is calling the shots, sir," replied Weir. "I'll be happy to fill you in on what I know, but Agent Bishop could probably give you the entire picture." He flipped his phone open. "Here's his number."

"Thank you," murmured Marsh, as he entered the number into his cell phone. "Excuse me for a moment." He stepped away, pretending to hit dial, and Weir moved over to the corner of the room, conversing with a computer expert.

"The system was wiped out," the computer man was saying. "They stored most of their files on a central server, but we don't know where it is. The connections were severed. To have any hope of recovery, we'd need to be able to find and access that main server."

Marsh paused. Now that his presence there had been validated, he had fully intended simply to walk away – but what if he didn't? Judging from what he had just heard, they might just have a chance at dodging this completely. Perhaps it would be in his best interest to stay involved, to find out as much as possible. It would mean fully committing himself to the ruse, which carried more risk, but it could pay off. His finger hovered over the call button, and then he stepped out through the door and hit dial.

"Yes."

The voice on the other end was wary; Bishop obviously didn't recognize the number. Marsh spoke into the phone with a businesslike air. "Agent Bishop. This is Senior Analyst J. Scott Marsh. I'm in New Orleans on vacation, and I was contacted a short time ago and told that I need to familiarize myself with your case. I'd like to meet with you."

There was a pause on the other end, and then Bishop responded; Marsh could hear relief in his voice. "Yes, sir, things are happening pretty fast, I could use the help. I'm actually just pulling up outside the Montreaux estate; perhaps you could meet me there."

"That's good," said Marsh, now moving toward the front of the building. "I'm already here – I just met with your tactical team leader, Weir." He had made it to the front door, and stepped out; nodding at the man stationed there, the phone still at his ear. He could see Joe Bishop getting out of his car, well down the driveway, parked behind the tactical team vehicles. "I see you. I'll meet you at your car."

He flipped the phone shut and strode down the front driveway, and Joe Bishop waited for him. Marsh had met him before once, and he never forgot a face. Clean cut, late thirties, light brown hair. He held out his hand as he approached. "Good to see you again," he murmured, as he stepped toward an empty section of front lawn. "Let's talk over here."

He listened as Bishop filled him in on the sting. The plot itself and Montreaux's involvement were known to him, of course, but it was vital to understand how much they knew. He listened carefully as Bishop continued with the most recent events. "Then a few weeks back, Montreaux requested Agent 2 to find a mathematics expert to help develop an export system. That's when our radar went up. We brought in two undercover operators, Charlie and Don Archer."

"Those are their aliases, of course," murmured Marsh.

"Of course," said Bishop. "Although they're brothers in real life. I realize that they're out, and I know you have clearance, sir, but I really shouldn't give out their real names until I get the all clear."

Marsh smiled to hide his disappointment. Even within the CIA, the actual names of field operators were never used without good reason, even among those who had clearance for them. It was a strict Bureau policy. It was likely that only Joe Bishop, the handler, and the top men knew their actual names, and Marsh would arouse suspicion if he asked for them. He listened as Bishop went on, explaining what had happened over the last two weeks, but he already knew a good deal of the story. Don Archer had been strictly involved in the cocaine business – that part of it was Montreaux's, and didn't interest Marsh. Charlie Archer was the true threat – he had intimate knowledge of the weapons plot, and was the only man who could identify the Iranians and Marsh himself.

Bishop was finishing a recounting of the events leading up to the morning, and Marsh broke in. "You extracted them, of course."

"Yes – I told Charlie as soon as he made the identification, he was to leave. He and Don are en route to the extraction point, along with the two other agents." Bishop's phone beeped and he glanced at the number. "That's one of them, now. Would you excuse me for a moment?"

Marsh nodded, and Bishop flipped his phone open, but didn't bother to step away. That slight gesture showed Marsh that Bishop trusted him completely – and why wouldn't he? Marsh thought to himself. Bishop had met him before, knew he was with the CIA. He jerked his gaze back to Bishop, as the handler exclaimed, "What?"

Marsh waited impatiently as Bishop said into the phone, "No, you made the right call. Stick with Don – what hospital? Okay – I'll get some protection over there to back you up."

He disconnected the call and shook his head, his face somber. "Montreaux's men apparently tried to hit the Archers en route to the extraction point. They forced their car off the road; then another group came by and sprayed the vehicle with bullets. Amazingly, neither one of them was hit – Ian said Charlie was holding a computer case – it acted like a flak jacket, saved his life."

"How fortunate," murmured Marsh, inwardly seething. Idiots. The issue could have been resolved, right there, and they had botched it. "You mentioned a hospital – they were injured, then?"

"Don was – a concussion from the looks of it. Charlie was okay. Agent Sumner is taking him on to the extraction point, and Agent Crocker is taking Don Archer to University Hospital. We'll have to keep protection on Don. As soon as he's stabilized, we'll get him out of here. Charlie's the key to this, though. We need to get him to a safe place as soon as possible."

"What's the extraction point?"

"The Naval Air Station."

Marsh felt a heaviness in his gut. "Good choice." It was, he thought with disappointment. There would be no chance of getting to Charlie Archer there. His only hope would be to find out where they were taking him. "And he's en route to where?"

Bishop shook his head. "I don't know – they _were_ going to Washington, but that was before their covers were blown. My contact in D.C. said those plans have been changed – but he wouldn't tell me where. Of course, now that Charlie's out, I'm no longer his handler – there's no reason for me to know. I'll have to call in – let my contact know what happened, and that they'll need to make plans to have Don join his brother as soon as he's able."

"Do me a favor," Marsh said quietly. "I'm here to help – I'm doing a personal favor for one of the assistant directors, but my own A.D. doesn't know about my assignment here yet. Don't tell anyone that I'm involved – give me a chance to talk to my boss first." He grinned, disarmingly. "You know how territorial those top guys get."

Bishop rolled his eyes and grinned back. "Yeah, no problem."

Marsh smiled. "One other suggestion – and you can tell your contact that this is your idea. You know Cypress Institute, right?"

Bishop frowned in concentration. "The think tank medical research place, just north of the city. They do a lot of research for the government, if I remember right."

Marsh nodded. The truth was; Cypress Institute was a well-regarded think tank that specialized in neurological advances, including such worthy endeavors as finding cures for paralysis and brain injuries. What the public didn't know was that there was a highly secret research sector at the institute, which specialized in rewiring the brain. It was brainwashing, technically, although that term was inadequate to describe the power of the new techniques, and a covert branch of the CIA had used it on an experimental basis to turn out pre-programmed assassins. The activity was so dark, so secret, that even at the CIA, only a handful of people knew about it. Marsh was one of them.

"That's the one," he replied. "One of the leading neurosurgeons in the country, Dr. George Allman, is on staff there, and is a personal friend of mine. I can call him, arrange to have Don Archer airlifted there. It would be a much more secure place to keep him while he convalesces, and he would receive cutting edge care for his head injury."

Bishop nodded enthusiastically. "That's a great idea. That place is restricted access – no one without clearance can get in."

"Good," said Marsh, smiling. "I'll call him right away, while you're reporting in."

Bishop nodded, and they stepped away from each other, pulling out their cell phones. Marsh felt high as a kite – a rush of adrenaline and endorphins – the same sensation he had gotten on missions in the past, acting as a field operative in dangerous situations. During the past few years, he'd been in an office job; it had been awhile since he had experienced it, and it reminded him of why he had been drawn into spying to begin with. There was nothing like it – the sensation of power provided by matching one's wits against the system, and winning. He could feel it now; he'd just had a flash of brilliance that filled him with excitement, with a feeling of pending triumph.

The thought, which had occurred to him while talking to Bishop, was pure genius, if it worked – to turn Don Archer, and use him to get to his brother. He could only hope that Archer's head injury was not so serious that Allman wouldn't consider him a candidate for the procedure.

He smiled into the phone as it was answered, and said, "George, it's J. Scott Marsh. Yes, it's good to talk to you again. Listen, George, we've got a job for you."

As Marsh spoke, he caught movement at the front door, and he looked up to see Jack Montreaux being led out, his hands cuffed behind his back. Their eyes met, and Marsh saw a brief flicker of surprise, then hope flash in Montreaux's eyes. Marsh inclined his head almost imperceptibly, and Montreaux read the unspoken statement. _'Keep quiet, deny everything; I'm working this.'_

As tactical team members placed Montreaux in the back of a vehicle, Marsh continued to speak into his phone. "I have a subject for you – it's a matter of national security. I need you to arrange to have a Don Archer transferred to your facility from University Hospital. I'm told he was brought in with a concussion – it should make for a good excuse for you to examine him. I'll meet you at Cypress in an hour, and we'll discuss the details of his – treatment. Correct, my friend. As always, we need to make sure we keep this confidential. I'll see you in an hour."

J. Scott Marsh flipped his phone shut, and smiled.

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End Chapter 16

_A/N: Just a little unexpected plot twist. I'm afraid I'm just hopscotching from one cliffie to another. :)_


	17. Chapter 17

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 17**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Because you've been such wonderful readers and reviewers, a bonus chapter to tide you over until Friday..._

……………………………………………

The guard at the air station entrance gave a curt wave, and Charlotte steered her Cadillac through the gate and onto the base, breathing a mental sigh of relief. Her charge had just taken a huge leap to safety – Charlie wouldn't be entirely safe until he was at his destination, but upon entering the NAS, his odds had improved dramatically. They had finished the ride in silence; the accident point was only a little over ten minutes away from the airfield, and Charlotte made for the far end of the base, towards a hangar with a small jet outside, without a word from Charlie.

She pulled in front of the hangar, and glanced across at him sympathetically. He looked anxious and miserable, and she knew he was worried about his brother. "Let's get you inside," she said, "while they prep your flight."

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him climb out of the vehicle, stiffly. He was limping – in the rush to get him away she hadn't noticed that before. "Maybe we should get someone to check you out," she said, as she moved beside him, guiding him toward the hangar entrance.

"I'm okay," he mumbled, noting for the first time that her Southern accent had disappeared. "Just banged up a little." In fact, his right knee had met the bottom of the dash, and his right arm had hit the door during the accident – both were badly bruised, but he was too worried about Don, too shaken by the events, to have any thought of dealing with them. Adding to his discomfort was Charlotte, and the crushing guilt and shame he felt over their doings last Friday. She was the last person he would talk to, even if he felt like talking.

Inside, Charlotte stepped aside to confer with a man who seemed to be in charge, although he was wearing neither a suit nor a uniform, just a polo shirt, slacks and a nondescript navy windbreaker. They conferred briefly, then she nodded at the man, who moved away to talk to another man in a crisp flight jumpsuit. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw Charlotte suddenly reach for and pull out her cell phone. She listened briefly, then spoke a word or two and hung up, and stepped back to Charlie, who stood there, dejectedly clutching his battered computer case.

She took his arm and pulled him aside. "We need to talk," she said, continuing until they were in a corner of the hangar, out of earshot of the personnel heading in and out of the doors. Outside, Charlie could hear the whine of jet engines.

"First," said Charlotte, "Ian just called – he couldn't say too much, but he told me that he and Don are on their way to the hospital – Ian is in the ambulance with him, and he said Don just came to, briefly. He went out again, but the fact that he woke is a good sign. The main thing is, they are safely away from the accident site. Joe Bishop called Ian right before they left, and they're arranging for Don to be transferred to a place called Cypress Institute, just north of New Orleans – they're famous for leading edge treatment of head injuries, among other things, and they are a private facility with high security. Don will be in the best hands possible, and as soon as he's healed enough to travel, they'll make sure he joins you. They're taking good care of him – you don't need to worry."

She studied his face. Charlie had seemed to relax just a bit at the news, but he still looked upset. "Second," Charlotte continued, "about last Friday. I want to clear up a few things. Ian told me you were pretty rattled afterward -,"

Charlie held up a hand, stopping her. "That's okay," he said, "I really don't want to talk about that."

"No, listen to me, Charlie." Charlotte's voice was earnest, and Charlie reluctantly turned to look up at her.

She took a breath, and looked him in the eyes. "I probably won't see you after this, and I want you to know what really happened. First of all, you did _not_ snort cocaine. It was prescription drug called Adderall. It produces an "up" sensation similar to cocaine, but not nearly as strong. I carried it so I could pretend to hang with Montreaux's drug crowd, without getting so high that I couldn't function." She smiled at him. "I thought you might like to know that you didn't ingest an illegal drug."

"Secondly," she continued, "and more importantly, nothing happened in bed that night. I did sleep next to you, but you were completely out." She blushed and dropped her gaze, then lifted her gorgeous blue eyes again. "As a matter of fact, I wouldn't have minded if something did happen, and just between you and me, I tried a kiss, to see where it would go. I had no idea you were seeing someone seriously – Ian told me afterward. You were, actually, a perfect gentlemen." Her smile widened a bit. "In fact, you sat on the bed next to me, took my face in both hands, looked at me very seriously, and told me you weren't that kind of guy. Then you dropped like a rock – I think you were out before your head hit the pillow."

Charlie was staring at her with his mouth open, and he managed to close it and mustered a weak grin, and flushed to the roots of his hair. '_So much for the dashing undercover agent,_' he thought to himself, but secretly, he was greatly relieved. He hadn't betrayed Amita, after all. "Thanks," he said quietly. "For telling me, I mean."

Charlotte smiled. "I have another confession," she said. "I intentionally pushed the liquor on you that night, including a couple of drinks laced with grain alcohol – I thought the sooner I could get you out of there the better. I figured you'd be safe in my room. It really was my fault that you ended up there – and ended up drunk."

Charlotte's expression turned more serious, and she said, "You did one heck of a job in there, Charlie, especially for your first time, but it's not over yet. I know you're worried about your brother, but you still have a job to do – you need to stay in one piece so you can report out, and they'll eventually need you to testify in the treason hearings. Just be patient – they'll get Don back to you. You'll be traveling without me – I'm heading in to Washington for my briefing, but they're taking you somewhere else."

She hesitated, then suddenly leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm gonna steal that kiss, now," she said. "All I can say is; she's one lucky girl. Good luck, Charlie Archer, or whatever your name is." She winked at him, and walked away.

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Don groaned, cracked open his eyes, then shut them immediately, wincing as the muted fluorescent light hit his eyes. His head was pounding; it felt as if someone was pressing on the left side of it with the handle of a shovel. He carefully tried again, squinting against the light, and got a group of images, which he managed to compile as the inside of a hospital room. He was lying in a bed, and Ian was sitting next to him. He closed his eyes, frowned, and tried again, this time turning his head slightly to focus on Ian. "What happened?"

Ian was studying him, calmly. "You were in an accident. You have a moderate concussion – you've been in and out. We brought you to University Hospital, and they choppered you over to a place called Cypress Institute – they specialize in spinal and head trauma cases. That's where you are now."

Don blinked and closed his eyes, trying to process the information. Snatches of it were coming back to him – the undercover operation, driving away from Montreaux's house – now the recollections were bursting back, popping like mental popcorn. The trip to the airfield, the highway, talking to Ian on the cell phone…His eyes snapped open suddenly, and he tried to sit up. "Charlie," he gasped. "Where's Charlie?"

Ian put a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him back onto the pillow. "Charlie's fine. Agent 1 got him out of there – she just called me. He's already in the air, on the way to a safe house."

Don blinked. "She?"

Ian smiled. "I guess it doesn't matter now, we're all out. Charlotte Sumner was Agent 1."

Don processed that for a minute, groggily. "Charlie wasn't hurt?"

The corner of Ian's mouth lifted, as he recalled Charlie's computer case, and the miracle of his escape. "No. He walked away from the accident – he might have had a bruise or two, but otherwise he was fine. He didn't want to leave you – we made him go."

Don closed his eyes and sighed. "Thank God for that."

"I'll tell you the rest later," Ian said. "The doctor's already sent you for some scans – he's reading them now. We'll get you healed up, and as soon as you're released, they're going to send you to the safe house with Charlie. You can relax – security here's tight as a drum, and Bishop put a couple of extra guys on your room. Montreaux's in custody, anyway."

Don frowned – he was drifting off again, and he fought to stay awake. "What about – the visitors – the guys - Charlie saw?" He managed to get the words out; then closed his eyes as he waited for the response.

Ian's face clouded. "We didn't apprehend anyone else. They must have cleared out as soon as they became suspicious, before the tactical team could get there. Charlie's going to have to do his best to give a description." He paused, waiting, but there was nothing but silence. "Don."

There was no response; Don was out again. A slight frown line appeared between Ian's normally expressionless eyes, and he settled in to wait.

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J. Scott Marsh faced Dr. George Allman across the desk in his office, as the doctor tented his fingers, and spoke. "I am assuming that this is another Class X."

Marsh nodded. "Yes. We'll want the usual deniability by the agency. Director Conaghan officially knows nothing about this, and I, in fact, am not really here. Agent Bishop actually gave the order to have Archer sent here, and he will be the Agency's official contact, but he is not to know what you're doing. There are others here, also, agents, guards – none of them should know. We will keep the usual arrangement – you will limit your communications on Archer's true progress to a single point of contact, namely me. I am assuming that his head injury will not keep you from entering him into the program."

Allman pursed his lips. "No, it's a moderate concussion – it will delay us two days, but the head injuries will actually help us hide the incisions. For the auditory module, we can go in through the slight cut in his scalp, above his left ear. He won't be entirely healed when we begin the process, but the surgeries are truly minimally invasive; I don't expect an issue. I will tell Bishop and the others, however, that his concussion is more serious than we thought – that he will require some surgery and at least two weeks, maybe more, of rehabilitation. We will use that time to reprogram him."

"The less time, the better. Joan Simms only took two weeks, if I remember right."

Allman shrugged. "It depends on the situation, and the emotions involved. If the subject feels strongly about the situation or the target, we can progress much faster. Joan hated her husband; it wasn't a stretch to reprogram her to kill him."

Marsh frowned. "I have no idea what kind of relationship Archer has with the target. What happens if the subject truly cares about the intended target?"

"It doesn't matter if the feelings are positive or negative, as long as they're strong. We can twist them – love can be converted to hatred, easily. Where we encounter difficulty, is when the subject is indifferent to the situation or intended target. Think of a stream of water, approaching a fork. The right side of the fork represents positive emotions like love, and the left, negative, like hate. Our techniques are like a water gate at the fork – we flip the gate to channel the emotion to the side we want. If the water is gushing, we can generate strong feelings either way, love or hate. If the stream is just a trickle, all we can manage is mild like or dislike. Of course, there are other techniques we can use to make that indifference grow into hate, but they take longer. I need a minimum of two weeks if Don Archer feels strongly about his target. If he is indifferent then I will need at least a month."

Marsh frowned. "And how do you assess that, without tipping him off?"

"It's easy enough to do – we show him pictures, map his responses with brain scans. We would need access to his personal history – we would want pictures of the intended target, of people close to him to use as a baseline."

Marsh said thoughtfully. "Joe Bishop, his handler, knows his real name."

Allman grinned. "You CIA guys are so secretive; you're in the same organization and still keep info from each other. I can tell Bishop that I need the information for rehabilitation reasons, to test Archer's memory and emotional responses." He paused. "Can I ask why you're programming him – who are you after?"

"A man named Charles Archer," said Marsh smoothly. "He and Don Archer are brothers in real life. Charles has become a national security threat – we think he is the key to a terrorist plot. He has gone into hiding, and we think that Don will be the only one that he'll trust enough to contact. We need Don to find him and eliminate him." He paused. "Of course, like all of these jobs, it must be kept highly secret – even top officials at the CIA won't know. That way, if any suspicions are aroused in the public sector, they can deny with impunity." He smiled. "But then, we've been through this before, haven't we, my friend?"

Allman smiled. "Yes indeed. And even though our efforts will go unsung, I will sleep better at night knowing I eliminated a threat to our nation's security."

"So will I," murmured Marsh, with a smile. "So will I."

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End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 18**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

……………………………………………

Charlie paced anxiously in the bedroom of the safe house, clutching his cell phone. Almost two days earlier, he'd arrived there after a several hour flight. He'd landed at a tiny airport that he didn't recognize, but the vegetation and terrain had looked western, and appeared even more familiar as they drove. He was in L.A., of all places, he realized, just miles from home. The agents with him explained that they'd had his house under surveillance as a precaution, to make sure that his cover wasn't broken and that there was no sign that anyone else was watching the Craftsman. Eventually, he might be able to go back there – perhaps even before the treason hearings. For the time being, however, he'd been put in a safe house, on the far eastern edge of L.A. They'd called in a doctor, who examined him, pronounced him badly bruised, and told him to rest. Charlie could have told him that – it was now two days later, and he was still limping slightly.

His injuries were nothing compared to Don's, he thought to himself, anxiously. He'd just talked to Ian, and had found that his brother was going into surgery in the morning – nothing major, Ian had told him – they were going in to make a sure a tiny bleed had resolved itself before they started Don on therapy. Just a precaution, Ian had repeated; nothing major. Right. They were about to cut a hole in his brother's head, and it was nothing major.

His phone vibrated in his hand, and he nearly dropped it. He managed to get it turned in his hand, only to see his father's number appear on the screen. He swallowed hard and flipped it open. "Dad. Hi. How's it going?"

"Charlie, good, how are you two doing?" Alan's voice was amiable, relaxed.

"Good. A little tired, but good. We've been pretty busy." Charlie was glad his father couldn't see his face, and the guilty flush that stained his cheeks. Don was getting ready to go through surgery for a head injury within hours, and Charlie had to stand there and lie to his own father. He tried to divert the conversation. "What's new?"

"Oh, it's crazy up here," Alan replied happily. "We've been unbelievably busy – one of the major businessmen in town has gotten involved, and wants some of his properties rebuilt as a part of the downtown renovation project. I'm kind of glad you two are still out there – I expected to get home some of these weekends, but there's no chance of that. Most of the original planning will be done in a couple of weeks, and I'd intended to go back to L.A. then, but the businessman has invited Stan and me out to his cabin to work on a proposal for a new mall. I guess his cabin is a heck of a place, out in the middle of nowhere. The scenery and wildlife are supposed to be magnificent. He says it's where he gets most of his inspirations."

Charlie gave him a weak chuckle. "I'll bet."

"Anyway, I wanted to give you boys a heads-up. Stan and I aren't entirely sure we'll go yet, but if we do, we'll be out of contact for a couple of weeks. There's no phone service there."

Charlie thought of the surveillance on the Craftsman, and was suddenly extremely glad his father was safe, in Alaska. The longer he stayed there, the better. "Dad, it sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime. You ought to take it. Don and I might not even be back by then – this is taking longer than we thought."

"Good, then maybe we'll consider it. I'll call you and let you know for sure before we go. How's Donnie doing, anyway? I tried calling him a couple of times, but he didn't answer his phone."

"Oh, uh, he's okay," stammered Charlie. "Quantico's a funny place, there are dead zones in spots here – sometimes our cells don't work. He's actually in a meeting right now." He winced at the lie.

"Okay, well, tell him I called. Take it easy – don't work too hard – and make sure you eat. I know how you are when you get on a roll."

"Yeah, don't worry, Dad, we're doing fine." They exchanged good-byes, and Charlie disconnected the call, feeling like a criminal. He sat on the edge of his bed, put his head in his hands, and groaned. God, he couldn't wait until Don was home safely, and this was over.

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"Everything set?'

"Yes," replied Allman, looking at Marsh. "They're prepping him now, getting ready to put him under."

"I know we've done this reprogramming before, but I never had you explain it to me," said Marsh, curiously. "How exactly will this work?"

"First we'll go in and put in the auditory module. It's similar in appearance to a cochlear implant used for the hearing-impaired, but much more advanced, and much smaller. It doesn't actually process sound – instead, it receives high definition radio signals, which it then transmits directly to the auditory nerve via a microchip. No one else can hear the signals, but to the device wearer, it sounds as though someone is speaking to him – and frankly, they are, from a central station. We rotate three teams of two, eight hours at a stretch, with a main handler in each team of two. All of them are highly trained in psychology and brainwashing techniques, and they provide direction to the subject, twenty-four hours a day. They can broadcast from here, but the subject will need to carry a device with him to receive and boost the signal, once he is outside a range of 100 miles."

Marsh pursed his lips. "So wherever Don goes, they'll be able to speak to him – he will have a voice inside his head, telling him what to do."

"Correct. That, of course, is after we've reprogrammed him – and the other part of the surgery facilitates that. That surgery is very similar to one that is done for Parkinson's patients – small holes are drilled in the top of the skull, and tiny wires are fed into the brain that deliver small doses of electric current. In Parkinson's patients, the wires are placed in parts of the brain that affect motion, and the goal is to control spasms and tremors. For our purposes, we target other areas of the brain."

"We have learned much about the areas we want to target from other sources. For example, we know that serial killers have physical differences in their thalamus, which we think inhibits normal feelings of guilt. We place two wires there. The prefrontal cortex controls decision-making and personality, we route other wires there. Finally, we place wires in the areas of the brain governing emotional responses. By adjusting the flow of current to the areas, we can control his moods, even his ability to reason. Once these are in place, we begin the brainwashing. Using the electrical impulses, we can accelerate the process and make it virtually impossible for the subject to resist – especially when coupled with constant instruction from our teams. We in essence reprogram the subject's brain. That is what we will be doing for the next two weeks after the surgery. Of course, the programming generally isn't permanent – we constantly need to monitor the subject. Our teams not only speak to him, they can adjust the electrical impulses remotely, by sending them to another booster unit. Both the auditory and brain wiring boosters are small devices – normally we put them in the subject's clothing, like a jacket. In Archer's case, we'll use the denim jacket that he wore here."

"Of course, the circuitry in his head will not operate without power. For that, we implant batteries in the area of the collarbone, and route wires from them up underneath the skin and the scalp – that part of the surgery is exactly the same as it is for Parkinson's patients."

"I know you're going to explain that the sutures in the head are because of his injuries and the surgery, but what about the collarbone incisions? Won't he wonder why he has them?"

"No one else will be able to see them under his hospital gown, and if Archer asks, we'll explain that we needed to go in there scope out the arteries leading up to his brain to check for clots after the procedure. That's bullshit, but he won't know that. The whole surgery will take the better part of the day, although it only takes the patient two days to recover – the incisions and access holes are very small."

Marsh frowned. "I thought you told Ian Crocker and Joe Bishop that you were doing a very simple exploratory to check a possible bleed. How will you explain the length of the surgery?"

"I already have that covered," replied Allman, confidently. "I will tell them we took Don back for surgery, but an emergency came in before we could get started, and we had to put his operation on hold for several hours. I'll say that because he was prepped, we opted to keep him in the pre-surgery bay. In addition, I will tell them that once we got in, we did find a bleed, and it was more serious than expected. That will be the excuse for the two week recovery, and for hours of therapy afterward."

"Did Bishop get clearance to give you his name?"

"Yes," replied Allman, "it's Eppes. Both brothers are out of Los Angeles – Don is SAC of the FBI office there. I've already obtained background information on him and his brother to use for the reprogramming. I told Bishop it was to check to make sure his cognitive and emotional responses were normal. I asked them to give me Charlie's location or phone number, but they balked at that – they said that was on a need-to-know basis, and that if we had to pass a message to him, we should do it through Bishop or Ian Crocker. Even they don't know his location, but they do have a phone number."

Marsh grunted. He wasn't surprised at that; he'd expected that they would keep a tight lid on Charlie's whereabouts. It didn't matter; Don Eppes would do the job for him – and when he was done, he would undoubtedly end up in a mental hospital for the criminally insane.

Allman pushed a photo from a pile across his desk. "Does that look familiar?"

Marsh looked down at the picture of the man he knew as Charles Archer, and nodded. "That's him," he said.

"Don calls him Charlie. We've already done some pre-testing, late yesterday – we showed Don pictures of people with impact on his life – from his family members to criminals that he's put away. While we did so, we mapped his emotional responses to the pictures with MRI imaging." He pulled out a multicolored scan of a brain, and laid it in front of Marsh. "That's the image of his brain when we showed him the picture of Charlie. The area and intensity of the colors show us whether or not he likes or dislikes the subject in the photo, and how strong his feelings are."

"And-," prompted Marsh, impatiently.

Allman smiled. "You couldn't ask for a better outcome. From this scan, and the questions we asked him, we've determined that he bears a deep love for his brother – although that love is twisted up in a complex relationship that goes back to their childhood. Apparently, Charlie was found to be a genius at an early age, and received unusual attention when he was young. Although Don was older, he spent a lot of time in his brother's shadow. Along with the love, there are traces of envy and resentment, and some deep-seated feelings of insecurity and intense competition. He didn't come right out and say that, but our psychologists are experts – they could read the meanings behind some of his statements."

"Kind of a love-hate thing," offered Marsh.

"I'm not sure I'd go that far – the negative feelings aren't nearly as strong as the positive. The strength of his love for his brother alone will give us the intensity of the emotional response we need. The other things will just make it easier to find footholds for the programmers – they can use those negative issues to turn Don's mind against his brother. For example, he admits he has a tendency to be protective of his younger brother – which implies related submerged beliefs that he is dominant, physically. We can twist that knowledge to make him feel that his brother is weak, and further twist that into feelings of disdain. Truthfully, I've never seen a better candidate. I predict a very successful outcome to this, and I wouldn't be surprised if we don't turn him in less than two weeks."

Marsh nodded with satisfaction. "Then I won't hold you up, doctor." He rose. "I need to head back to Washington. As we discussed before, I was never here – and you simply treated Don Eppes for a head injury, nothing more. You know what to do from here – although I will be in touch regularly by phone." He nodded. "I won't shake," he said with a smile. "We need to be sure you don't injure your valuable hands. Good luck."

Allman smiled back. "Thank you. And now, I have to be going. They'll be ready for me in twenty minutes."

Marsh nodded, and slipped out the back entrance to the office, and down the back staircase, while Allman left his office by the main door. Marsh _was_ going back to Washington – but he would be returning before Don Eppes was released. He would have a loose end to tie up at that point – a loose end named Joe Bishop.

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Brian Rogan and Bill Masters watched as their witness paced the kitchen of the safe house, anxiously. The fixers had returned to Washington while the Eppes men were in New Orleans, but they'd been called back out to L.A. prior to Charlie's return, to oversee anything that might have a bearing on his safety. Bill Masters eyed the young man with a feeling as close to sympathy as he could muster – years of dealing with the darker side of human nature had left him with muted ability to empathize. Charlie Eppes looked thinner than when he'd left, tired, tense, and was obviously by now nearly frantic about his brother. Don Eppes had been scheduled to go into surgery that morning, around 5 a.m. L.A. time. They'd received a call six hours later from Ian Edgerton, telling them that the surgery had been delayed, but that it was beginning. That was four hours ago – four hours for a surgery that was supposed to have lasted two, and was supposed to have started ten hours previously.

Masters' phone rang, and he pulled it out and flipped it open, putting it to his ear as he watched Charlie stop pacing and look at him, his dark eyes filled with anxiety. "Yeah," said Masters. "Yeah, okay. Uh huh. Yeah, I'll tell him."

He flipped the phone shut and looked at Charlie. "That was Joe Bishop. Your brother's out of surgery and is doing fine." He watched Charlie sag with relief.

"What took so long?"

"Apparently they did find a small bleed – a very tiny slow leak, and needed to repair it. It wasn't that hard to fix – just hard to get to, apparently. They said everything went fine, but they'll have to keep him another two weeks for recovery and some testing, just to make sure there were no long term effects."

"Two weeks," repeated Charlie weakly, his shoulders sagging even further.

Brian Rogan spoke up. "It's going to take three or four weeks to organize the treason hearings against Montreaux – plus, they're still trying to track down the Iranians and the other man you saw from your descriptions. You're going to have to stay here that long anyway. We told you that."

"I know," sighed Charlie, "I'm glad he'll be okay, but I'll feel a lot better when I see him for myself. He's going through this by himself, with no family there. He can't convalesce up here, for at least part of it?"

Masters spoke up. "Bishop said it might be sooner. He said the doctors want to take him through therapy, and they want to be sure he passes all of his cognitive and reaction testing. He'll need to have that before he can be cleared to go back to work, and he might as well get it done there. He'll still have a couple of weeks of recovery time after that, but by that time, the two of you should be finished with your assignment, and you can both get back to your lives." He looked at Charlie, and grinned. "Relax. He's in good hands. He'll be back soon enough. My brother and I used to fight all the time. If you're anything like us, you'll be wishing he was gone a day after he's back."

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End Chapter 18

_A/N: I should explain that the procedure described here is fictional (at least, I hope so.) It is, however, based on fact. Someone very close to me has undergone deep brain stimulus surgery for Parkinson's, and the description of the surgery is relatively accurate, although I took a few liberties. Actually, the surgery is often broken into two parts. The first part - inserting the leads into the brain, takes several hours, and unlike Don's surgery, is done while the patient is awake, so the doctor can determine the precise lead location that stops the tremors. Then leads are run under the scalp and coiled under the skin near the ears. The patient does usually go home in just a couple of days, believe it or not, with two very small incisions on the top of their head. The second surgery is usually done a week or two later – in that one, they implant the batteries near the collarbones, and bring the wires down from the ear area under the skin and connect them. The batteries are programmable remotely, which becomes important later. For story purposes, I had them do all of the surgery at once, including putting a separate auditory device in the left side of Don's head, near his ear. I also did some research on which areas of the brain affect what, and so although this is fictional, it is based on a good amount of fact. The only outward sign that a patient would exhibit afterward would be some small scars, soon hidden by hair, on the head, and small scars near the collarbone. Also, if one looks closely, or touches the battery area, they might see or feel a slight bulge – those signs would be completely unnoticeable under clothing. _

_I've gotten a few comments that people are trying to catch up with this story, but I have the next chapter or two done. I may do a couple of extra chapters this weekened, if you're ready for them._

_I hope I didn't give the spy agencies any ideas, here… :)_


	19. Chapter 19

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 19**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: We're entering my personal favorite part of the story. The next couple of chapters will be very Don-intensive, but don't worry, Charlie fans; his turn is coming._

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Don started therapy the second day after his surgery. Dr. Allman had told him the physical portion of his therapy needed to wait for two more days, but he had Don up and walking a bit already. Truthfully, Don felt weak but otherwise in decent shape, although he suspected he would have a pounding headache without the pain medication they'd administered. It was an odd feeling to know that someone had been inside one's head, and odder yet to find that he really didn't feel much different afterward. His thought processes were dulled just a bit by the pain meds, but he'd found with relief that he seemed to be thinking logically. Apparently, everything was still working the way it should, and he was about to undergo testing to verify that.

For the therapy session, they'd put him in wheelchair with a headrest and wheeled him into a room. It was sterile-looking, with a white tile floor, white walls, and a very high, two-storied ceiling. All of the white might have been hard on the eyes, except for the fact that the room was dimly lit. On one wall was a large video screen, and set into the back wall was a section of dark glass, which looked like a one-way viewing window. It was placed high on the wall; whoever occupied it would look down into the room from the second floor. The walls on either side contained speakers, and directly overhead hung a large piece of equipment, suspended from the ceiling. The man pushing his wheelchair positioned Don underneath it. "Thermal imaging scanner," he explained, as he lowered the piece of equipment over Don's head. "They'll take pictures of your brain as you respond to visual images, scents, and sounds. They explained to you that you can't have an MRI anymore, right?"

Don nodded. "Dr. Allman told me. He said I have a small metal plate in my head where they went in. I can have X-rays, but no MRIs."

"This is okay, too," said the technician, patting the piece of equipment hanging over Don's head. "Although you probably won't run into one outside of this facility – it's pretty cutting edge. It gives pictures similar to an MRI. This facility has the best post-op rehab and testing in the U.S. If you pass it, you'll be cleared for field duty again after another few weeks of recovery – you won't have to go through it again when you return home."

"Okay, let's get started." A voice suddenly emanated from the speakers, and the technician glanced up at the window set into the wall.

He looked at Don, gave him a pat on the shoulder. "I'll be just outside. There's water on the table next to you, and we'll stop for breaks periodically. If you need something, just tell the guys in the booth." He stepped out, closing the door behind him, and the room dimmed further as the lights in the ceiling went out and the large flat screen on the wall in front of Don powered on, and filled the room with a blue glow. Overhead, the thermal imaging scanner came to life with a soft buzzing sound.

Up in the control booth, three men examined the subject below. One of them was a technician who had a degree in biomedical engineering; it was his job to manage the electrical impulses through the wires in the various areas of the brain. He sat at a set of controls, with a set of monitors surrounding him. A second man was designated as 'speaker;' he sat in a separate, soundproofed section of the booth. He wore a headset so he could hear the others and the subject in the room below, but his microphone needed to be insulated from all other sound, except the sound of his voice, so he was isolated. He and the third man both had degrees in psychology. The third man stood in the main section of the booth, behind the technician. He was in charge of the reprogramming, and was an expert in brainwashing technique. He stepped forward to the set of controls, depressed a button to turn on the microphone, and spoke into it. "Okay, agent, my name is Jonathan Wilkes – you can call me Jon. I'm right behind you in the control booth with our technician, Mike Korb, who will be putting pictures on the screen for us, and running the thermal imaging machine. Can we call you Don?"

"Sure." The subject's voice floated into the booth, clearly.

Wilkes kept his voice friendly, casual. He purposely hadn't mentioned the second man, the speaker, Rod Jamison, in the isolation booth. Jamison would jump in when necessary, his voice coming from the auditory module inside Don Eppes' head. The goal of the 'speaker' was to make Eppes believe that the voice inside his head was his own.

Wilkes spoke again, genially. "Okay, Don. With head injuries, we need to test a variety of responses to make sure that your brain is functioning normally. Some of those are whole body responses, like reflexes. Others are sensory, like sight and smell. You've already been through some of those basic tests, and the report tells me you passed them with flying colors. What we're going to try to do in here over the next several days is test your cognitive and emotional responses. Those are much more difficult to assess, and will take much more time. They are necessary; however, I'm sure you're aware that head injuries can cause personality changes, among other things. We need to make sure that you're responding normally before you return to work."

Don shifted slightly in his chair, and leaned his head back against the headrest, getting into a comfortable position. "Yes, Dr. Allman explained that to me."

"Good," said Wilkes, genially. "Now if you remember, we showed you some pictures of people you know to evaluate your emotional responses, before the surgery. We're going to run through them again now, and spend some time on each of them individually." He chuckled. "Consider it a bunch of free psychotherapy sessions, if you like." He nodded to the technician. "First slide."

A picture of Alan Eppes showed on the screen. "Don, can you tell me who this is?"

"My father."

"Good. Now, Don, just sit still for a moment with your head on the headrest, and look at the picture. We're going to take a quick thermal image."

Don focused on the image of his father, trying to fight down the twinge of homesickness the picture generated. God, he couldn't wait to get back home. The equipment over his head was still buzzing softly, continuously; he couldn't tell when they were taking images.

"Okay, we've got the image." Wilkes' voice came over the speaker. "You're pretty close to your dad, aren't you?"

"Yeah," said Don.

"Yes, the image shows that, and it compares well to your pre-surgery image. Tell me about him," urged Wilkes. "Were you close to him growing up?" He let go of the button to cut the sound to the microphone, and spoke to Mike. "You getting it?"

Mike nodded, his eyes on the monitors in front of him, his hands on knobs, twisting, fine-tuning the readings. "Yep, dialing in leads C, D, and E. Got it – the settings for familial love are set. I'm going to power the leads up."

Wilkes was keeping one ear on the speaker, as Don's voice floated through it. "…he was always the one at my ballgames, and ended up spending more time with me than he did with my brother. My mom was the one who took Charlie to tutors, so Dad and I had more than our share of time together."

"Powering up," said Mike.

Wilkes pressed the button for the microphone. "Good. Don, we're going to take another scan. Just look at the picture, that's great."

He let go of the button, and Mike said, "Okay, the current is being applied. He should be feeling synthetic emotion now."

Don gazed at the picture of his father, and felt a deep sense of love, a peaceful feeling pervade his body and mind, and the equipment over his head buzzed again. Words floated through his brain – '_I can't wait to see you, Dad_' – it sounded almost as if someone had spoken them aloud.

Up in the booth, Wilkes glanced at the two images that had come from the printer in front of him – the first one truly generated by Don's actual feelings for his father, the second, artificially generated by the electrodes in his brain. "Good," he said, "they look exactly the same. Familial love is mapped."

"Okay," said Mike, as he pushed a button, "I'm locking in the settings."

Rod Jamison's voice came over the speaker, and Wilkes turned to look at him in the soundproof booth. "I just fed him a verbal," said Jamison. "'_I can't wait to see you, Dad._' He didn't respond."

"That's good," said Wilkes, "as long as the auditory module is functioning correctly. We'll test for that later. No response means he's assimilating your voice. Okay, let's do romantic/sexual love next."

He pressed the button for the microphone. "Okay, Don, that went well. We're going to do another one." A picture of Robin Brooks came up on the screen. "This one is your girlfriend, is that correct?"

"Yeah," replied Don. "Robin." It felt a little odd to see the pictures there; it was disconcerting that within hours of giving the doctor his real name, the CIA had generated pictures and personal information about him and the people close to him. He knew the men who were evaluating him had high-level CIA clearances, but still… '_Talk about your invasion of privacy_,' he thought to himself.

Jon's voice came over the speaker. "You're not concentrating on her, are you, Don? I'm seeing some negative patterns on the imaging screen."

"Sorry," replied Don, "you're right."

"Why don't you talk about how you met?"

Don focused on Robin's image in front of him. She was smiling in the picture, the smile that had first hooked him – teasing, slightly knowing, as if she could read his mind. One corner of his lip quirked slightly in response. "She's a prosecutor," he said. "I met her working on a case. We dated for a while; then she broke it off." His face turned rueful. "I haven't exactly been Mr. Commitment, over the years, so I really couldn't blame her. Lately though, we've gotten back together – it's been pretty good."

"Okay, good," came Jon's voice. "We're going to take a scan. Just look at her for a moment."

Don gazed at her face, his eyes following the glossy dark hair flowing over her shoulder. She had sexy shoulders, he thought to himself. The equipment buzzed over his head.

Up in the booth, Mike spoke. "Okay, I'm dialed in – I've got the settings. I'm gonna power up."

Jon Wilkes spoke into the microphone. "One more scan, Don." He nodded at Mike, who turned on the electrodes.

In the wheelchair, Don felt a rush of heat, longing tinged with lust. '_Man, she's hot,_' the voice inside his head said, '_I miss her._'"

"Just gave him another verbal," said Rod Jamison, and Wilkes nodded, looking at the two images, again comparing Don's real feelings to the emotions they had just artificially generated. They would learn the proper settings for a wide range of emotions, and store them for later use. "Good match," he said to Mike. "Lock it in, and then bring up Marko Stiles."

He pushed the button and spoke into the microphone. "Okay, Don, it's going very well. Your pre-surgery and post-surgery images are matching very closely; that's a good sign." Actually, both images were post-surgery, one generated by Don's actual feelings, the other by the electrodes in his brain, but Don Eppes didn't know that.

Jon Wilkes continued. "Now we're going to switch it up here, and look at some negative emotions." Mike hit a button, and the image of Marko Stiles' mug shot filled the screen, his dark eyes flat, dead looking. Wilkes studied it, and spoke again. "Do you recognize this man?"

Don nodded, his brows drawn together, his lip curled in disgust. "Marko Stiles. I put him away for juvenile rape. He kidnapped and assaulted three young girls four years ago. He showed no remorse, whatsoever."

The men in the booth quickly ran through the procedure again, and Mike locked in the settings for several negative emotions – hatred, revulsion, loathing; then Wilkes spoke into the microphone. "Okay, Don, we're going to try something a little different on this one – the images we showed you pre-surgery did a good job of capturing most of your emotions, but none of them generated significant anger. I need you to imagine something that would enrage you – perhaps if you think of Stiles attacking someone close to you, like Robin. We want to see if the appropriate areas of your brain scan light up."

"Okay." Don closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating, then opened them, glaring at the image on the screen, his hands clenching the arms of the wheelchair as the thermal imaging equipment buzzed over his head.

"Got it," said Mike, quietly.

"Okay," said Wilkes, "lock in that baseline for anger, then ramp up the current – increase the emotional level gradually, while feeding it back to him. Let's see how pissed off we can make him."

He pushed the button for the microphone. "That's good, Don, but we need more. Concentrate – he's hurting her, hitting her."

Don stared at the screen, and felt a rush of anger surge through him. He was breathing heavily now, and beads of sweat began to dot his forehead as the hatred mushroomed inside him, black and ugly, blotting out everything else. He was trembling now, his hands gripping the rails, his face twisted in a mask of rage. '_Sick bastard_,' whispered the voice inside his head, '_locking you up was too good for you.' _He was so consumed with hatred, with loathing; he didn't hear the buzzing of the machine above him.

Wilkes studied the image and grunted. "Wow, you've got him going, Mike – lock in that setting for rage and bring him down – you're gonna make him blow a gasket." He glanced sideways at Rob. "You get in a verbal on that one?"

"Yeah," replied Jamison, through the control room speakers. He quoted, "'_Sick bastard. Locking you up was too good for you_.'"

Wilkes grinned at him. "You're good."

"He's coming down," said Mike. "I removed the picture from the screen."

Wilkes looked down at the man in the room below. Don Eppes was visibly shaking, drenched with sweat, and breathing heavily. Wilkes pushed the button for the microphone. "You doing okay, there, Don?"

"Yeah," Don rasped, gasping. He took a deep shuddering breath. "You picked a good one for that – man, I hate that guy." He spoke lightly, trying to mask a feeling of deep discomfort. He'd felt out of control on that one – where in the hell had that come from?

Wilkes' voice came over the speaker. "Yeah, that was quite the response – you might have a future teaching method acting. Don't worry if your reaction seemed a little over the top – you've just spent the better part of an hour trying to access your deepest emotions. It's normal as you get into one of these sessions that you become a bit hypersensitive to the stimuli. Rest assured, you're doing great – your reactions are perfectly normal. We don't see any impairment in emotional function so far. Look, we're going to give you a break, you can relax for a couple of hours, eat lunch, and if you're up for it, we'll do some more this afternoon."

"Yeah," said Don, running a shaky hand over his face to remove the sweat, trying to keep his voice casual. "Okay, that sounds good."

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Jonathan Wilkes, Mike Korb, and Rod Jamison hunched over a table, eating sandwiches and studying the scans. Wilkes pushed two of them across the table to Dr. Allman. "Those are familial love – generated by his father. The one on your right was Eppes' own emotions; Mike created the one on the left with the electrical impulses."

Allman grunted approvingly. "They're almost identical." He looked up at Korb. "I didn't think it was possible, but you're getting even better at this."

Korb shrugged. "It has a lot to do with how the electrodes are placed, Doc. That's your doing." He looked at Allman, quizzically. "I know we're programming him to kill his brother, but can I ask - what did the guy do?"

"Charles Eppes is a double agent," said Allman. "He was caught sending secrets to Pakistan not too long ago, although he managed to wriggle out of that one. They've been watching him since, and have found that he's part of a plot to smuggle weapons to Iran. To make things worse, he's consulted over the years for the U.S. government on highly classified projects – he knows enough to be highly dangerous. The problem is they have nothing that will stick, no way to put him away. Eliminating him is the only way to protect national security."

"What'll happen to Don Eppes?"

"He's collateral damage, I'm afraid. We're to direct him to murder his brother in front of witnesses, so there is no question of who killed him. He'll be charged with murder and put away, somewhere safe. An institute for the criminally insane, most likely, just like Joan Simms. Some time later, after things have died down, I'm sure they'll tell us to go in and remove the hardware from his head, just as we did with her."

The men nodded; for them that was justification enough. They'd worked other cases that were murkier in the name of preserving American security.

Allman looked at Wilkes. "How far did you get?"

"Baseline negatives – hatred, loathing, anger." Wilkes pushed the scans over to him. "Then Mike generated synthetic rage – I thought Eppes was going to lose it right there." He pushed another scan across the table, and Allman frowned.

"You need to be a little careful – he's still recovering." He studied the image. "That's about as clear a picture of rage as I've ever seen, though." Allman pulled another scan toward him and studied it, and then pushed it toward the other men. "This was his pre-surgery scan for Charlie." He pointed. "Look at the amount of red, here, and here, and then the yellow areas."

Wilkes pursed his lips. "From a love standpoint, he feels at least as strongly about Charlie as he does about his father, or even Robin. Maybe more. The yellow areas are interesting, though. They're associated with negative emotions – they contradict the red areas." He looked up at Allman. "I've been studying these. As far as Mike goes, this will be a standard transfer process. He'll use the anger and rage settings that he developed from Marko Stiles, and apply them to Don while he's looking at the picture of Charlie."

"You need to do it gradually," said Allman. "He's going to resist at first – you need to make him doubt himself."

"That's where I come in," said Jamison. "I've been studying the transcripts and video from Don's initial conversations about his family, and also anything I can find on Charlie Eppes. I've got quite a bit of background – I should be able to generate some believable verbals to feed him, just mild negative statements at first, then as he progresses, I'll make them more caustic."

Allman nodded. "Good. When do you start him on Charlie?"

"This afternoon," said Wilkes, "if he's up for it."

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Ian Edgerton slipped out of Don's room and into the hallway, nearly bumping into Joe Bishop, who had stepped around a security guard and was reaching for the door when it opened. "Hey," said Joe, "how's he doing?"

"Sleeping right now," replied Ian, as they turned down the hallway. "He just finished lunch. I'm going to get some myself."

"How's his therapy going?"

"Good, he thinks," said Edgerton. "He says they're doing a bunch of scans, checking his emotional responses. They told him everything looks good so far. I think he's hoping he'll get out of here sooner than they thought, although it sounds like there's a lot of testing to go yet."

"Did you call Charlie today?"

"Not yet. I'll call him in a minute, give him an update."

"You'd better – he'll be stewing."

"Yeah, he frets worse than my grandmother. Maybe Don ought to stay here for a while – if they're both locked up in a safe house together, Charlie might drive him nuts."

Bishop laughed, and they moved down the hallway, Ian's last words hanging in the air.

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End Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 20**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for your reviews; I very truly and humbly appreciate them. _

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Don took a deep breath as the technician wheeled him into place again in front of the screen, and then positioned the thermal imaging scanner over his head. He'd eaten lunch and had fallen asleep afterward for about an hour before Jon Wilkes had appeared and woken him, asking him if he wanted to try another session. At the time, all he'd wanted was to continue his nap; he was unaccountably tired, but he also wanted to get the hell out of Cypress Institute and get to where Charlie was. Joe Bishop had assured him that Charlie was fine, but Don was counting the days until his release. If getting out sooner meant pushing his therapy sessions a little, so be it.

Wilkes' voice came over the speakers as the technician left the room, his voice upbeat, pleasant, already familiar. "Okay, Don, we're going to start in again." The thermal imagining scanner began its soft buzzing noise, and the screen flickered on, blank, intensely blue. It flickered again, and an image of Charlie came up on the screen – a publicity shot from one of his book signings. Don hadn't seen that picture before, and he wasn't entirely sure it was one of Charlie's best; the smile was bit forced, the expression a bit cocky.

Wilkes looked at Mike. "Give me some low level negative – irritation." Mike nodded and reached for the controls, and Wilkes pushed the button in for the microphone. "Don, tell me how you feel about your brother."

Don shirted uncomfortably in the chair, feeling inexplicably irritated. "Charlie? Well, he's a pretty unique guy. I already told you, he's a genius when it comes to mathematics. We didn't get along too well when we were younger – there was a pretty big age difference, and we just didn't get each other. We started working together a few years ago, though, and it's been good since then. I think we've gotten a lot closer."

'_Liar_,' a voice whispered inside his head. Don blinked in confusion; then frowned.

There was a brief silence, and then Wilkes' voice came over the speaker, his tone reproving. "Don, we told you at the beginning of these sessions to think of this as psychotherapy. Everything we talk about here is confidential, and you need to be entirely frank with us. If you aren't, the scans won't match your responses, and we won't be able to pass you. If you don't pass, it means no more fieldwork – maybe no more work for the FBI. We aren't here to judge you – just be truthful."

"I thought I was," protested Don.

"Okay, let me ask it this way. On a scale of one to ten, with one being hate, ten being love, and 5 being neutral, rate how you feel about Charlie."

"Oh, uh, it's probably a nine. I mean I love the guy, but he does drive me nuts sometimes – I don't know if I've quite reached a ten," Don said with a wry grin.

'_You're such a liar. Be honest. You know he's an egotistical jerk,_' the voice sounded in his head, and Don's grin faded. He frowned, and rubbed his forehead.

Wilkes looked at Mike. "Ramp it up a little – baseline anger and loathing - a little lower than the original settings for Marko Stiles." He pushed in the button for the microphone again. "Don, I want you to sit there for a moment, and concentrate on Charlie's picture, and think, really think about how you feel at this moment."

Don looked up at the screen, uncertainty on his face. There was only one reason Jon could be pushing this, questioning him, Don thought – his answers obviously weren't matching his brain scans. The image of Charlie's face filled the screen, the eager dark eyes, the brilliant smile, an image that ordinarily would have brought an answering smile to Don's lips. All he could feel, however, was anger, and disgust. He sat there, staring, trying desperately to conjure up something positive. He could hear the voice in his head - '_Face it, you never liked him, you always hated him. You put up with him for Mom and Dad's sakes – you've tolerated him for so long, you almost believe your own lies. Oh, you probably loved him once, when you were younger, but years of his selfishness and ego-trips destroyed that. You hate him, and you're lying to them, just like you lie to the rest of the world, just like you lie to yourself.'_

Don could feel shock and confusion, love and hate, affection and disgust, whirling around inside of him; the emotions so strong, they made his head spin. Along with them was mounting panic. '_Quit lying_,' the voice said, and Don shook his head and closed his eyes, putting his hands to the sides of his head, as if to cover his ears. "Shut up," he whispered.

Jon's voice came through the speaker. "Don, are you all right?"

Don was breathing heavily, and he could feel nausea rising. "Uh, no, I'm actually not," he said. His voice sounded ragged. "I think I'm a little too tired for this."

"All right, no problem," replied Wilkes. "We'll continue tomorrow." He released the button and looked at Mike. "Remove the picture, and take his anger level down at the same time." He looked thoughtfully out at the man hunched in the wheelchair. "This is going to take a little longer than I thought – he's fighting it. We'll get there, though – it may take us the full two weeks, but we'll get there."

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Ian Edgerton strode down the hallway, returning from lunch and a quick telephone conversation with Charlie on the grounds outside the building. He'd given the anxious young man some reassurance, had told him that Don's therapy was progressing well. Charlie in turn had given him an update; apparently, one of the Iranian suspects had been apprehended trying to cross the border into Mexico, his picture had been emailed to the safe house, and Charlie had made a positive ID. One down, three to go. Ian privately thought that they had a chance with the Iranians, but the fourth man was going to be a lot tougher to find. His American features were so average a pencil sketch would get them nothing. It was too generic – without a photo, those blandly good-looking features could belong to hundreds of dark-haired American men.

As he turned down the hallway to head toward a waiting area, he was surprised to see Don Eppes being wheeled down the hallway, and he glanced at his watch as he altered his course and strode toward him. Don couldn't have spent more than a few minutes in his therapy session, and he looked pale, ill. Ian came up alongside the wheelchair, as they reached Don's room. "Hey, you okay?"

Don swallowed. He looked shaken, uncertain. "Yeah," he said unsteadily. "Just got tired all of a sudden. I'll be okay."

The technician looked at Ian, as the security guard outside the room rose from his chair and held the door open for them. "We've got the doc coming down to check him out, but we think he just tried to do too much today. He needs some rest."

Ian nodded; his face expressionless except for a tiny frown line between his eyes. He started to follow the technician into the room, but the man held up a hand. "Not now, please," he said, "the patient needs to rest. You can visit him later."

Ian halted where he was, and the door slowly swung closed.

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J. Scott Marsh turned down the hallway at CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, and fixed a neutral expression on his face as he saw his bosses. His immediate superior, Mark Lewis, was conferring with the top man, Director James Conaghan, and they were headed right toward him. As they drew closer, Mark Lewis looked up in surprise. "Scott – I thought you were on vacation."

Marsh smiled with the just the right touch of sadness. He'd actually been back in town for five days, but hadn't returned to work until two days ago – he'd been establishing an alibi. "I was – a close family friend died. I came back for the funeral."

They exchanged handshakes, and Lewis and Conaghan both murmured condolences. "That's too bad," said Lewis. "You were where? Are you planning to go back?"

"Pensacola," lied Marsh. He had, in fact, flown into Pensacola, and driven the three hours to New Orleans. "Actually, I'm not sure what I'll do now about my vacation time. I won't be doing a two-week stretch, as I originally planned – I may take a short trip here or there, instead. I'll let you know." He nodded at Conaghan, as he moved off down the hall. "Good to see you, sir."

Lewis looked after him and said to Conaghan. "Good man, that Marsh. He's a hard worker. He's got good knowledge of the Middle East."

Conaghan grunted an affirmation. "I've heard that." To himself, he thought, "_We probably could have used him on the Iranian weapons deal,_" but he said nothing. Even Lewis didn't know the particulars of that case. That knowledge had been restricted to the heads of the CIA, FBI and the DEA, and the three fixers, Joe Bishop, Brian Rogan, and Bill Masters. Of all of those men, only Conaghan himself and Joe Bishop were CIA.

Even the CIA staff treating Don Eppes at Cypress Institute had no knowledge of the operation that the Eppes men had just completed, although that staff had enough clearance for it. No, thought Conaghan, there was no need to let others in at this point. With Charlie Eppes at a safe house, soon to testify, they would have what they needed to stymie this particular attempt, although unfortunately they didn't appear to have the top men behind the plot in custody. Two of the Iranians were still at large, as was their mysterious American contact.

What they really needed was for Montreaux to crack, Conaghan reflected, as he continued down the hall, half-listening to Lewis. The man was denying any knowledge of the weapons deal, and even of his cocaine operation, saying it had been run by the Clemenceaus, who were rumored to be hiding out in the bayous around New Orleans. However, they had enough on the cocaine operation to get Montreaux on those charges. They had tried to use that as leverage to get Montreaux to give up his contacts for the weapons deal, but to no avail – he refused to talk. Charlie Eppes was their ace in the hole – he could put all of them away, if only they could find them all. The unknown American was the key – and Conaghan wondered, not for the first time, who he was, and where he could be.

………………………………………………………………

J. Scott Marsh proceeded down the hall to his office, nodding at the receptionist on the way in, and made his way to his desk. He sat down behind it and thought for a moment, his minding running over what he was trying to accomplish, and what could go wrong. Many things, he decided, although if his plot went as planned, if the Cypress agents did their jobs, the outcome would be almost flawless. Charlie Eppes would have been murdered by his own brother, and Don Eppes would be imprisoned. Once he was there, they would arrange for an 'escape,' and Don Eppes would vanish, never to be seen again. Yes, it was almost flawless – but not quite. If for any reason Don Eppes underwent a physical exam that included X-rays, the physician would find the wiring and the modules that had been implanted in him. It wouldn't take much of a leap to tie that back to his time in Cypress Institute, and from there to the man who had ordered it done, namely himself. Only two men knew that he was behind the request to send Eppes to Cypress Institute – Joe Bishop, and Dr. Allman. As far as the CIA knew, Joe Bishop was the one who had requested Eppes' transfer to Cypress Institute, but if Bishop found out that Eppes had been the recipient of advanced brainwashing techniques, he'd be quick to confess, and tell Conaghan that Marsh had suggested the transfer. It was obvious; Bishop had to go.

What was less clear was what to do with Allman. Dr. Allman had directed clandestine brainwashing operations before, most of them without Conaghan's knowledge. The doctor knew that it was part of his job to deny any knowledge of such operations if they ever came to be public knowledge – that specific requirement of his job was designed to protect the CIA Director from prosecution. If the inquiry came from the Director himself, though, it would be another story – Allman might decide that he needed to come clean. The risk was too great – Allman would need to go, too, eventually, but not until after Charlie Eppes was dead. He and his men would be needed until that happened.

There was no doubt - they were still needed. The first thing Marsh had done upon finding out the Eppes' true identities was to hire a private agency to watch Charlie's Craftsman home in L.A., to see if they had taken him there. It had become obvious after a few days that they'd taken the target somewhere else, obviously to a safe house – the Craftsman remained unoccupied. Charlie could be anywhere in the country. Marsh had cancelled the surveillance, and had let the plan proceed. There was no other way now – he was committed – he would have to let Don Eppes complete the job. The hard part – finding a way to get him to Cypress Institute and to have him turned – was nearly over. The only remaining problem would be cleaning up the two loose ends.

Perhaps they could both be dealt with at the same time, thought Marsh, if he were smart about it. However, first things first. Don Eppes was now five days into his 'therapy,' and according to Allman, was close to being broken – to be made to believe that he hated his brother. A few more days, Allman had told him that morning, and Don would be convinced that he wanted him dead.

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The breakthrough came a few days later, a little over one week into Don's therapy sessions. Wilkes, Korb, and Jamison had worked patiently, relentlessly over the preceding days, slowly ramping up the intensity of the artificial hatred, bombarding Eppes with images of Charlie while filling his brain with electrical impulses that induced feelings of loathing. The barrage was constant; even at night in Don's sleep a speaker was assigned to transmit words of hatred into the module in his head. Wilkes had to admit, he'd never seen a subject fight so hard – but the intensity of Don's feelings for his brother would prove to be his undoing – once they managed to convert him, those feelings would be just as strong, only manifesting themselves as hatred, instead of love.

As a precaution, they'd limited visits by Joe Bishop and the agent who they still knew as Ian Crocker out of concern that Don would describe his sessions in detail to them. They needn't have worried – apparently, Eppes was ashamed of his impulses, reluctant to admit even to himself that he was feeling hatred toward his brother. Instead, he let it fester inside, feeding his own feelings of self-doubt. On that morning, one week after they'd started therapy, they faced a man who had been shaken to his foundations, who was on the verge of breaking. That morning, they were going for it – no more mediocre settings of anger and irritation. Allman had given them approval to induce all-out rage.

Even before they started, Don Eppes sat in the wheelchair, clutching the arms, his body tight. Wilkes knew that he dreaded the sessions. Truthfully, Eppes no longer needed a wheelchair; he'd been doing physical therapy in the afternoons and had regained most of his strength. The wheelchair was designed to keep the patient's head in the proper position for scanning however, so they'd left it in place. As they powered up the screen, Jon Wilkes could see the image of Don's brain light up with the negative emotions associated with fear – apprehension, dread.

He pushed the button for the microphone, and spoke into it. "Okay, Don, we're going to begin." The screen flickered and an image of Charlie appeared, and simultaneously, Mike Korb applied current to the appropriate leads in Eppes' brain. The image on Don's brain scan began to change – color disappearing in some regions, reappearing in others as the feeling of hatred took hold.

Wilkes continued. "Don, yesterday, we talked about your reluctance to admit how you really feel about Charlie, and we speculated that you might be ashamed of those feelings, and of how it might appear to your father. I asked you to think about that over the evening."

Don swallowed hard, clenching the arms of the wheelchair as he looked at Charlie's picture. He had to admit, he felt nothing but disgust every time he saw his picture. '_Look at him_,' whispered the voice inside his head. '_Wouldn't you just like to put your hands around his neck? You've been the good son, trying to keep peace in the family by pretending to like him. But truthfully, would__ Dad __even care? How do you know he doesn't despise him, too, and doesn't want to admit it? Maybe Dad's tired of being his __caretaker__. Charlie is selfish, has always been selfish. Even if you did admit you hated him, __Dad __wouldn't care - in fact, maybe it would give him the courage to make his own break from that soul-sucking little bastard._'

"Yeah," said Don, his voice unsteady. "I thought about it."

"And?"

"He can be pretty selfish."

"Start ramping up," said Wilkes to Korb. He pushed the button and spoke into the microphone. "You know he is. It's okay to admit it."

Don could feel anger, hot and black, beginning to spiral inside him. "He just uses my Dad," he said, his voice rising. "My Dad ends up doing all the cooking, most of the cleaning. He works too, he goes to school, and then he comes home and keeps house for Charlie." ' _He uses you, too,_' whispered the voice in his head. Charlie's face wavered on the screen, the expression changing – the innocence in his brother's eyes becoming devious, the light-hearted smile, cold and calculating.

"He uses me, too," Don said.

"Bingo," said Jamison, his voice coming over the speaker from the isolation booth. "I just got a direct repeat – the first one."

Wilkes nodded, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "We're closing in. Ramp it all the way up, Mike, and I'll make a printout. I want to try something." He depressed the microphone button. "Look at him, Don, and tell me how you feel."

Don was shaking with anger now, breathing heavily, rage swirling through him. The words were on the tip of his tongue – he hated him, he hated him – but somewhere deep inside, a voice was telling him no, he didn't – he loved him, and if he admitted that he hated him aloud, that love would vanish. He groaned with frustration, sweat rolling off his brow.

Wilkes had snatched the printout, and dashed out of the control booth with the printout and another he had pulled from the file. He flew downstairs, burst into the room and knelt in front of Don, who sat rigidly, trembling in the chair, his jaw clenched, looking as though he was about to explode. They were at a critical point, Wilkes knew – Don couldn't physically sustain that level of rage for long – he would stroke out. He shoved two printouts in front of him and spoke urgently. "Don, look at this – I know you're fighting the reality that you truly hate him – but you need to see this. One of these scans is your brain's reaction to the image of Charlie, taken just now, and the other is your reaction to Marko Stiles. Look at them, Don, they're identical."

Don was staring at the pictures, agony on his face, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. "No," he whispered.

Wilkes put on a sympathetic expression. "I know it's hard for someone of your character to admit, Don, but brain scans don't lie. Look at them – you know it's true. It's not your fault you were born into the same family as him – in fact, from what I understand about him; a good person _should_ hate him. It's okay to say it."

'_Say it,_' whispered the voice inside Don's head. '_Say it – feel the freedom, the release, from finally admitting it. You hate him, more than anything on this earth._'

"You're right - I hate him," Don rasped, shaking, his face going dark with rage. He looked up at the screen at Charlie's image, his eyes filled with loathing. "_I hate him_."

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End Chapter 20

_A/N: Charlie shows up again next chapter..._


	21. Chapter 21

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 21**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: A little bonus chapter for you..._

……………………………………………

"Let's check the video feed before he gets off the grounds."

Wilkes, Korb, Jamison, Dr. Allman, and a fifth man, new to the group, hunched over the screen in the monitoring booth. It was one week after Don Eppes' break, and they were watching as the parking lot moved slowly toward them, captured in the lens of a hidden camera.

"Where's the camera located?" asked the newcomer. He was the field director, the man who would command the mission from that point forward, and assure that the brainwashed agent would accomplish the mission. The rest of them knew him as Paul Ziegler, and even that jaded bunch regarded him with respect and a healthy fear. Had they known his complete background as one of the CIA's most notorious assassins, they would have been more uncomfortable yet.

"In his jacket," replied Jamison. "He arrived wearing a denim jacket – it was perfect. We have both signal boosters in interior pockets, and we removed a button from the front and installed the video feed in it, then reattached it."

"He knows he's to keep the jacket with him at all times, and to wear it except when he's sleeping. It's light enough to wear indoors without raising suspicion," added Wilkes. "They're taking a private jet to get to the safe house location, so we don't have to worry about him trying to get through airport security and setting off metal detectors."

Zeigler's gaze flicked to another monitor, which displayed a shot of the grounds in front of the building, and watched as Don Eppes walked toward the lot with Ian Crocker. "And how do you feel about his level of preparation?"

"He's ready," responded Wilkes, confidently. "His mind is completely under our control. We've convinced him that he needs to kill his brother; we've managed to persuade him that Charlie is a rogue agent, a threat to society. We've told him, however, that he needs to listen to the voice in his head – we told him that his own instinct will guide him, let him know the proper time. He also knows he is supposed to hide the boosters and not to let anyone know of his 'mission.' We do need to keep him under constant surveillance, however, and keep a certain level of electricity running in his brain. The minute we let our guard down, he begins to revert back to his old emotional state."

"We've got the monitoring teams already set up for you," said Korb. "We're going to the take the "B" shift, from 4 p.m. to midnight. We think that might be the optimum time of day for him to make a move, and we're the ones with the most experience with him, so we signed up for that one. We've got two other teams – Team C from midnight to 8 a.m., and Team A from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m."

"We're doing all the monitoring from here? We're not using an on-site agent with a mobile controller?" asked Ziegler.

"We don't know the location of the safe house, at least not until Don Eppes arrives," replied Wilkes. "He's got the boosters and the camera with him – we can do it from here."

Ziegler looked at Allman. "You've received the assignment instructions – are there any particulars that I need to know?"

"To prevent any fallout for the Agency, they want both of them out of the picture," replied Allman. "Charlie Eppes will be terminated. The desire is for Don Eppes to remain alive – if he were to be killed; an autopsy might reveal the circuitry inside him. The orders are for him to be taken into custody and to be charged with Charlie's murder. The assassination should be made to look like a killing that resulted from an argument. Once Eppes is in custody and is charged with the killing, we will send agents to engineer what will look like a prison break. Don Eppes will then be eliminated, and his body will disappear – making it appear as though he made a successful escape."

Ziegler watched the men reflectively as they moved down the sidewalk. "We will need to perform the killing in front of witnesses, then – but not so close that the witnesses can intervene."

The men fell silent and watched as a car pulled up to the edge of the lot, and the men climbed inside. The video feed in the button of Don Eppes' jacket picked up the top of the dash and the view out of the windshield as the car moved forward. Wilkes spoke, reflectively. "I have to admit, there was a time when I was beginning to wonder if we could get him to turn."

Allman grunted. "The only person who could possibly resist our methods would be a psychopath, someone without emotion, which Eppes is mostly certainly not. Trust me gentlemen, he'll do what he was programmed to do."

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Charlie paced anxiously back and forth in the living room of the safe house, and Brian Rogan watched him cross and re-cross the same patch of fading twilight on the carpet. The light was muted, coming through the drawn sheers; no windows in the house were completely uncovered. "You're gonna wear a rut in that rug," said Rogan amiably, and Charlie stopped, sighed, and ran a hand through already disheveled curls.

"I know. It's just – they were supposed to be here by now."

Even as they spoke, the sun dipped over the edge of the horizon, and the patch of light on the floor faded. An orange sky still backlit the sheer draperies, but the sunlight was gone, and the horizon below the sky was dark. A car pulled up, its headlights on, and Bill Masters pulled aside a bit of drapery to look outside. "They're here," he said.

Charlie moved toward the door, and stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands, waiting as Masters opened the door. He caught one glimpse of Don's face through the glass-lined screen door over Master's shoulder, and disregarding his instructions not to show himself, pushed past him impatiently as the screen door opened and his brother stepped inside.

"Don," said Charlie, his voice thick with emotion, and impulsively clasped him in a tight hug.

Don stood there rigidly, not returning the embrace – one second passed, then two, and then Don said, with disapproval in his voice, "You don't need to get so worked up, Charlie, I'm fine."

Charlie stepped back quickly, confusion and embarrassment on his face. They weren't a family prone to hugs, but it had been two weeks, and he'd been so worried…

"Sorry," he mumbled, his cheeks flaming, aware that the eyes of the others were on him, including Ian Edgerton's gaze, cool and speculative. He had come in behind Don, and Charlie nodded at him, uncertainly; then looked up at Don.

He looked good, Charlie decided. He was thinner and there was the trace of a scar, already mostly covered by hair, over his brother's left ear, but other than that, he could see no sign of Don's ordeal.

Don looked at him and smiled, but his eyes were oddly expressionless. "It's okay, Charlie." He nodded at Rogan and Masters. "It's good to be back in L.A." His grin widened. "I'm starving – what do you guys have to eat around here?"

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief; now _that_ sounded like his brother. "We ordered pizza," he said, enthusiastically, heading toward the kitchen, missing the cold flicker in his brother's eyes. "Brian just came back with it."

The others followed him from the room, and they trooped into the kitchen. Charlie opened the refrigerator door. "Beer?" he said, holding out a bottle toward Don.

Don made no move to take it, just shook his head. "Doc said I should stay away from alcohol for a month or two."

Charlie stared at him. "Oh, yeah, right," he said.

Rogan and Masters looked at him. "You know we can't," said Masters. "We're on duty."

Ian reached out and snagged the bottle. "I can," he said. "I'm not on watch." He indicated Don with a jerk of his head. "In fact, I'm just dropping this guy off – I'm gone tomorrow morning." He looked at Charlie pointedly. "You gonna join me?"

Charlie turned and ducked his head as he retrieved another beer, to hide his face. "Sure." He felt unaccountably embarrassed, awkward; there was something intangible in the room that made him feel as though he was being judged. He pulled out some water bottles too, passing them to the others, one by one.

They congregated around the table, and the atmosphere seemed to lighten a little as they dug into the pizzas. Don tilted back in his chair, looking comfortable, at ease, and Charlie felt himself relax a bit, and took a big breath of relief.

"So, Ian tells me you guys haven't seen any sign of surveillance on the Craftsman," said Don, as he took a mouthful of pizza. "How come you're still here?" The voice inside his head was talking, _'You need to get rid of them. Get them out of the house. You won't be able to get to Charlie with them right inside the house_.'

Masters shrugged. "It's safer. Although we've considered moving there – we might yet, if we're convinced no one has figured out who you two are."

Don grunted. "This place is pretty small – the Craftsman would be a lot more comfortable. Although, now that I'm here, you guys don't need to stick around inside. You can put a couple of people outside, or across the street." He smiled at his brother. "I can take care of Charlie."

Rogan and Masters exchanged a glance. "Wouldn't bother me any," said Rogan. He looked at Charlie. "No offense."

Charlie grinned. Truthfully, one-on-one time with Don was just what he'd been hoping for. He had a lot to tell him. "None taken," he said cheerfully, and took a bite of pizza. A look of revulsion flitted across Don's face, and he lifted his water bottle to his lips to hide it.

"We'd have to get approval," said Masters, "from the big guys. But we'll ask."

"Good," said Don, his smile returning. "You guys do that."

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As things turned out, whether to move or not became a moot point the next morning.

Charlie stirred and stretched contentedly in his bed, as the morning light seeped through the space between the blind and the window. He hadn't had much chance to talk with Don the night before; his brother had gone to bed shortly after eating, claiming he was still on Central Standard Time, and it was late. It was enough, however, to know that Don was safe and in the bedroom next door; Charlie felt better than he had in a long time. He lay there lazily gazing up at the ceiling, looking forward to talking with Don – he wanted to tell him so many things – that he hadn't snorted cocaine; that he hadn't slept with Charlotte Sumner – well, he'd slept with her, but that was all. He hadn't cheated on Amita.

Don probably didn't know that they'd apprehended a second Iranian suspect trying to cross the border into Mexico. They'd apprehended Pierre Montreaux the same way, although at the Canadian border. The remaining Iranian, the leader, bore features that were distinct enough that even from the pencil sketch, the CIA had been able to identify him as a Spanish businessman who had been born in Iran, named Khalid. They had been watching him for some time, and even though they suspected he had successfully fled the United States, chances were good that his discovery had made him useless, at least in his current role. The CIA didn't expect him back in the U.S., and had sent word to the Spanish government to watch for his return. Apart from him, they were only missing the fourth man, the American, and of course, the Clemenceaus, who were still skulking somewhere in the swamps of Louisiana. Don probably also did not know that the initial treason hearings for Jack and Pierre Montreaux, and the espionage grand jury hearings for the Iranians, were being set concurrently for the same week, two weeks from now. There was a lot to discuss.

His cell phone rang, and he grabbed it without looking, thinking it was probably Amita. Eight a.m. L.A. time was just before dinner Swiss time, and it was the time she usually called. When he answered, there was a female voice on the line – familiar, certainly, but not Amita. His eyes opened wide and he sat up in surprise.

"Megan! Hi."

"Hi, Charlie," she said, her voice cheerful, but businesslike. "How the heck are you?"

"Good," he said, regaining his equilibrium. Her next comment, however, had him flailing again.

"That's good," she responded cheerfully, "now _where_ the heck are you? I was out in Washington a few weeks back and tried to get hold of you guys – Larry told me you were at Quantico developing a course. I came back out to D.C. this week for a follow-up meeting, and Larry told me you were still here. I checked with friends at the Bureau, both times. Charlie, you are not at Quantico. Don won't even answer my phone calls. Is everything all right?"

"Uh," stammered Charlie, thinking furiously of a way to cover. "We're back in L.A., actually. We uh, had a little car accident – nothing serious, but Don was in the hospital for a while. We just got back – we're recuperating."

Megan's voice was full of concern. "Charlie, are you serious? Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, really, we're fine," said Charlie, frantically trying to think of the ramifications of his response. Megan wasn't in L.A. anymore; she wouldn't know they weren't at the Craftsman. The falsehood should work. "I don't imagine either of us will be off more than a couple of weeks."

"Charlie, is there anything I can do? I've been traveling and working some weekends – I've got some time off coming. I can come out there."

"No, Megan, really, we're fine," protested Charlie. "It was a minor accident. We're fine."

"All right," she said doubtfully. "But if you need anything, don't be afraid to call."

"I will," Charlie assured her. "Thanks." They disconnected, and he ran a hand through his hair, nervously. Hopefully he'd set her mind at ease, and she'd drop it. He'd have to report it, though, he thought with a sigh. The men in charge would need to know that their cover story was blown, at least for one person.

Make that several persons. He'd been off the phone for only minutes, and was up and had one foot into a pair of sweats, when the phone rang again. This time it _was_ Amita.

"Charlie!" she railed, worry and accusation in her voice. "Larry just called me – he said Megan told him you were in an accident! I just talked to you yesterday – you didn't say anything about it! Are you okay?"

Charlie had been awkwardly trying to get his other leg into the sweatpants, and paused, standing with the phone to his ear, on one leg, like a flustered stork. "I didn't want you to worry," he said. "It was nothing – I was going to tell you about it when you got back." He managed to mollify her and get her off the line, and sighed as he pulled on his sweatpants. Still not too much harm done – Larry and Amita were in Europe – they wouldn't know that he and Don weren't at the Craftsman, either. He'd have to talk to Rogan and Masters, immediately, however. He was just heading for the door, when the phone rang again.

The last call was a problem. Colby was on the line, saying he and David were going to stop by the Craftsman that evening, to see if they needed anything. Megan had also apparently called them, too, and told them they should check in on the Eppes brothers.

Charlie hung up, groaned in exasperation, and ran a hand over his face. How could he manage to keep their cover intact for weeks while face-to-face with dangerous criminals, and then blow it with one innocuous phone call? He dragged downstairs, sheepishly, to confess.

In the end, it worked out. The powers in Washington decided that perhaps Charlie's tale would be a suitable continuation of their cover story – the brothers had been at Quantico, and came home early because of an accident on the roads just outside of Quantico. In fact, they actually commended Charlie on his quick thinking. Director Conaghan decided that they would transfer the brothers to the Craftsman from the safe house, and protective surveillance would be established unobtrusively outside the house until the hearings. Don seemed pleased with the arrangements, and as they stepped in through the front door of the Craftsman that afternoon, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. Things might work out, after all. He was home; he was with Don. Everything was going to be all right.

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End Chapter 21

_A/N: Whump alert, next chapter..._


	22. Chapter 22

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 22**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: A few of you have had some questions. This story does get pretty complicated. Perhaps it's time for a brief recap. They have arrested Jack and Pierre Montreaux and some of the Iranians. The head Iranian, Khalid, has escaped the country. The CIA double agent, J. Scott Marsh, who is the unknown American that Charlie saw in Montreaux's study, is also at large. Because they haven't been able to capture those men, and because Charlie is needed to testify against Montreaux, Conaghan and Maxwell (CIA and FBI directors) have put Charlie and Don under protective custody. It was Marsh who gave the command to Dr. Allman for Don to be brainwashed, and Marsh is the villain the brothers will need to worry about for the rest of the story. _

_The question is, will the brothers' relationship survive what is about to happen? It's important to remember in the upcoming chapters, that Don isn't really the Don we know and love, he's someone else entirely. Also, you have probably already realized that whenever you see italics in Don's POV, it is not him speaking – it is the 'speaker' at Cypress Institute, talking to him through the auditory module inside Don's head. Don will come back to us, but not yet… and by the way, Don fans, I am not done whumping him, not by a long shot. Right now, though, it's Charlie's turn in the whump seat, and this chapter is only a warm-up._

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Don clenched his fist, then opened it with an exaggerated motion, pretending he was stretching a cramped hand. He was crawling inside – a combination of a tingling sense of anticipation, which he often felt on a mission, and an undercurrent of irritation. He couldn't stand to be in the same house with Charlie, and he was anxious to get on with things, to end this. The source of the emotions never occurred to him; he didn't realize that his brain was under a constant barrage of electricity designed to interrupt his normal thought processes - a fraction of a milliohm down this lead or that was enough to suppress normal feelings of love and empathy, and replace them with feelings of disgust and loathing. He was on a hair trigger, and just a slight increase in amperage could throw him into a rage. Added to that was the voice in his head, which advised, goaded, and calmed by turns – it was whispering to him now. '_Get the agents out of the house – they can't be too close, or they'll get to you before you finish the job_.'

Don looked at Bill Masters, and smiled coldly. "And I told you before; we don't need anyone inside with us. You know your men outside will keep anyone from entering, anyway. You don't need more than one man inside with Charlie, and I'm perfectly qualified."

"You're still healing," Masters pointed out.

"I'm well enough for this," countered Don. "Cut us a break, will you, Bill? We're both fresh off undercover; Charlie's got to testify in two weeks. We could both use a chance to relax and rest in privacy."

Masters sighed and looked at Rogan, who shrugged. "All right," conceded Masters. "We'll stick to the outside – on these conditions. We get to set up camp in the garage, and we can come through the kitchen to use the bathroom. Otherwise, we'll stay out of your hair – although I will place my men so that I can have at least two inside and engaged within 5 seconds, in case you need them."

The corner of Don's mouth twitched in annoyance, and he caught it and made it a smile. The voice inside his head was telling him to back off – that he shouldn't push for more, or they might get suspicious. There would be time to revise the agreement later. "Okay, deal," he said.

He glanced sideways. Charlie had been watching the exchange quietly, but as Don looked his way, Charlie grinned. Don knew that Charlie would like the arrangement – just the two of them, alone. '_The little puke will want to talk._' Don's mouth twisted in annoyance once again, and this time, he let it, although he turned his head away so no one could see.

"Don't forget," Rogan said, as they turned to leave, "Colby Granger and David Sinclair are stopping by to visit in less than two hours. You two know the cover story – you were driving your rented Monte Carlo outside of Quantico when you were involved in a minor accident. Don suffered a mild concussion and was hospitalized briefly – you both just got into L.A. yesterday. The class development work was put on hold for a few weeks – you'll go back out and finish it then. We'll use that as your cover when you need to testify."

Charlie nodded. "Got it." He stood there, not moving as the door closed, and then looked at Don, and smiled. "Take off your jacket and stay awhile," he teased.

'_Humor him,_' said the voice, '_but decline_.' Don grunted and shrugged, and headed toward the sofa. "It feels a little chilly in here. I think I'll keep it on."

Charlie turned and made for the dining room. "Dad probably turned down the thermostat while we were gone," he said, but stopped in his tracks as his cell phone beeped, pulled it out, and answered. "Oh, Dad," he said, looking meaningfully at Don. "Hi – we were just talking about you. How's it going? Oh, yeah, your trip to the cabin. Yeah, I told you, I think you ought to go. Hold on a minute." He hit mute, and looked at Don, speaking quickly. "Dad called a couple of weeks back, and said he might extend his trip and go with Stan to a cabin – it belongs to a Juneau businessman who wants them to work on a mall proposal. He said he'll be out in the middle of nowhere for a couple of weeks – I told him he should go. At the time, you weren't here yet, and I was still at the safe house – I thought it would be better if he wasn't around."

Don, leaning back against the sofa cushion, nodded approvingly. "I think he should go, too. We aren't done with this yet." He held out his hand and leaned forward. "Let me talk to him."

Charlie turned 'mute' off, and said into the phone, "Hold on, Dad, Don wants to talk to you," then stepped toward Don and handed him the phone, and watched as his brother's face creased in a familiar grin. It occurred to him it was the first time he'd seen Don smile that way – a real smile that engaged his eyes – since he'd returned.

"Yeah, Dad," Don was saying. "I think that sounds great – you ought to do it. Charlie and I are busy anyway. Yeah, I'm doing okay. When do you leave? Tomorrow? Okay, no, we'll understand if we can't reach you. Enjoy yourself – I'll see you when you get back." His eyes flicked back to Charlie, and the smile faded. "Okay, 'bye Dad."

He held the phone out and Charlie took it and put it to his ear. "Dad?"

"He had to go," said Don, his eyes suddenly dark. '_He didn't want to talk to you, you spoiled brat_,' said the voice in his head. _'He hates you, too.'_

Charlie stared at him a moment, then shrugged and headed for the thermostat. "I'll turn the heat up. No sense you sitting there in that jacket; you might as well be comfortable."

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Paul Ziegler, the operations leader, sat back and watched the screen over tented fingers. Team B had just come on, and Wilkes, Korb, and Jamison were on duty. Jamison was already in the isolation booth; they could see his lips moving as he spoke to the receiver in Don Eppes' head.

The camera in Don Eppes' jacket was picking up the living room, and Agents Sinclair and Granger, sitting across from him.

Korb frowned at the screen. "I'm still not sure that I get why Charlie Eppes is under protection by other agencies, while we're trying to kill him."

Ziegler replied, without taking his eyes from the screen. "I asked Allman the same question. Apparently, Charlie Eppes works for whoever will pay him – and sometimes that's the U.S. government. According to Allman's source, Charlie and Don Eppes just finished an assignment for the DEA and the FBI that had to do with a New Orleans businessman named Montreaux, and his drug operation. They're supposed to testify against Montreaux, and in the meantime they're under protection. The DEA and FBI don't know that Charlie is a double agent, and we've been instructed to keep it that way."

"Whatever he's involved in, it must be some really dark shit," muttered Korb.

"The protection unit will make it harder to pull this off," said Wilkes.

"Not necessarily," demurred Ziegler. He watched as Granger and Sinclair rose and headed for the door and Don Eppes closed it behind them. The visit by the FBI agents had been brief, uneventful, although Ziegler noted that Charlie seemed as familiar with the agents as Don was. "How does Charlie know them?" he asked. He waved his hand at the screen. "Granger and Sinclair."

Wilkes answered. "Charlie consulted for his brother on several cases over the last few years. From conversations with Don and our sources, he knows the team well – they work together often enough that Charlie's considered part of the team."

"Would they be someone who Charlie would go to if he needed help?" asked Ziegler.

Wilkes shrugged. "Yeah, they might be. What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure yet," admitted Ziegler. "I'm trying to figure out the best place to pull this off."

"Why not right at the house?"

"We might have to. There are a couple of problems with that, though – you've got a crew of agents on alert, ready to stop any kind of altercation; there's a chance they could hear something and get in and pre-empt it. And if Don pulled it off silently, there won't be any witnesses – which our orders call for. Granted, they'd come in and find Charlie afterward, and we could instruct Don to come out and confess to the murder, but I'm guessing there would be some people who wouldn't believe that he did it without actually seeing him do it – and that would make for unwanted questions. We may still have to go that way, but it would be better to flush Charlie out somehow – get him out in public but away from all or most of his protection. I'll have to think about this."

"Well, we can't think too long," said Wilkes. "We've got Don on a tight leash, but we're walking a fine line here – we need to keep the current of negative emotions going to prevent him from reverting to his normal state of mind, but we can't let him get out of control and kill the target before we're ready. It's tough to keep him in that middle zone when he's constantly faced with the target."

Ziegler grunted. "I think you should test him a little – in fact, I want you to get them into a fight – nothing major, but enough to make Charlie uncomfortable. We need to start working on Charlie's head if we want to get him to run. I know one thing; I want to get some cameras installed. Charlie's already questioning Don as to why he won't take the jacket off in the house – if we had cameras, Don could do that; we wouldn't have to rely on the one in his jacket. We know where they are now. I want cameras in every room of that house – you said Don has an apartment – I want them there, too. I also need a guy to scope out the FBI offices, maybe install some there also, depending on what he finds. I'll get Allman to hook up with a couple of our people out in L.A. and get them on that one." He rose as he spoke, lifting his large muscular frame from the chair. "In fact, I think I'll go talk to him now – maybe they can get it done this evening."

Wilkes and Korb kept their eyes on the monitor as Ziegler slipped out the door, but both of them were well aware of the moment he was out, and they simultaneously breathed a soft sigh of relief.

"That guy makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up," said Korb.

"Tell me about it," muttered Wilkes. He eyed the two men on the screen. "He wants a fight, huh? Okay, we'd better clue in Jamison." He flicked on the microphone for Jamison's headphones.

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Colby glanced at David in the dark cab of David's SUV, with his cell phone to his ear. David was at the wheel, his face softly illuminated by the dashboard lights.

"It's ringing," Colby said, then his voice changed. "Hey, Megan. It's Colby. You were right, there's definitely something going on." He put the phone on speaker so that David could hear her response.

On the other end, Megan's brow furrowed, and she began to pace the length of her D.C. hotel room. "Why? What did you see?"

"Well, for one thing, they didn't seem exactly normal – I couldn't put my finger on it exactly, but they both seemed uptight. Charlie was nervous – smiling too much, trying too hard, and Don seemed like he was in a bad mood. The kicker, though, was when we came outside – I caught a quick glimpse of a guy in the bushes. It wasn't a good look, but I could tell from his profile he was geared up – flak jacket and assault rifle."

"Did it look like they'd been in an accident?"

"Charlie looked okay, and Don did too, although he had a few scars almost covered over by hair – one over his left ear, and a couple of small ones on the top of his head – I saw those as he stood up."

"Well, that part jives with their story," said Megan, "but the guy you saw outside blows it out of the water." She paused for a moment, reflecting. "I think I'm going to come out there."

David and Colby exchanged a glance. "I don't know if you need to do that, Megan," said David. "We were gonna talk to Wright – see if he knows what's going on. Our guess is that it's a witness protection set-up of some kind – we think they must have been working on something while they were gone."

"Yeah, you're probably right," said Megan, "but I might come anyway. I took the coming week off to visit a friend in Maryland, and she just went in the hospital for appendicitis. She's going to be laid up – she told me not to come. I already put in for the time, and Larry's tied up in Europe – I was thinking of visiting some friends in L.A. instead."

"You just want to see our smiling faces," grinned Colby.

"That, too," she said, smiling. "Let me know what you find out – I mean, as much as you can tell me – I still have my clearances. I just want to know that they're okay."

"I'm sure they are," responded David. "But we'll let you know."

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Charlie stumped back into the kitchen, after carrying a box of sub sandwiches out to the garage. Masters had asked him to order for all of them that evening, but he told Charlie that going forward, they would provide for themselves. Judging by the number of sandwiches, Charlie figured that in addition to Rogan and Masters, there were at least seven others deployed around the house, although that probably included the two men in the SUV parked at the front curb. He came back into the living room, quietly pushing through the kitchen door. Don seemed to be in a foul mood – maybe he was hungry. "I've got ours out in the kitchen," he said. "Come on and get something to eat."

Don jabbed at the remote and rose, his face impassive. Charlie stayed put as he came toward him, standing just a few feet outside the kitchen door. "Maybe we can talk," he said, as Don approached. He looked at him curiously. "I think it's pretty warm in here now. Why don't you take that jacket off?

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In the control room, hundreds of miles away, Wilkes said into the mike, "Okay, boys, let's try this. We want to shake Charlie up a little – make sure you keep control."

Jamison spoke into the mike. "I don't want to take the goddamned jacket off, Charlie – get off my back."

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Don faced Charlie, eyes filled with contempt. "I don't want to take the goddamned jacket off, Charlie – get off my back."

Charlie gaped at him, then his face flushed with anger. "What's with you, anyway? You've been like a bear since you've come back."

Don's jaw hardened and he took a step towards him. "Oh, I don't know," he said sarcastically. "Maybe it's because I just spent the last few weeks of my life on a mission I didn't want to be on in the first place, and I almost got killed, because you had to insist on going. I should have stayed here – and let you go on your own."

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In the control booth, Wilkes listened to Don; then spoke to Jamison over his headset. "That was pretty good."

Jamison held up his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "That wasn't me."

Wilkes and Korb exchanged a glance. "He's justifying," Wilkes said. "Don's using some of his own negative thoughts and memories to justify what he's feeling. Better keep a close eye on this, Korb – ramp up the current, but be ready to back him off, this could get out of control."

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Charlie stared at him, a hurt look mingling with the anger on his face. "I told you before we took it that I didn't think you should go. You insisted."

Don took another step forward, and poked a finger into Charlie's chest. He could feel rage beginning to boil inside him, and the voice in his head said. '_Provoke him - you know you want to fight him – make him fight you. Tell him he was selfish.' _Don growled, "Bullshit, Charlie. You know you wanted me to go – and you knew I wouldn't let you go alone. You had to sign up anyway – you're selfish, and you've always been selfish."

Don was standing over him now, menacing, too close, and Charlie's head was spinning with hurt and anger. He just wanted out of there, away from him. He pushed at Don's chest, trying almost blindly to move past him toward the general direction of the living room and the stairs.

The contact was like touching a match to tinder. Don felt a surge of rage wash through him, and he grabbed the front of Charlie's shirt with both hands and shoved him roughly into the wall. "You want to fight, you little jerk?" he snarled.

Charlie's hands came up and he grasped Don's wrists, pushing back, his eyes flashing. "Let go of me!" he spat. "I don't know what in the hell's wrong with you, but you need to chill out!"

He'd no sooner gotten the words out when a fist exploded in his gut, and he gasped in pain and shock. He tried to double over, but Don's left hand still gripped the front of his shirt, still forced him up against the wall, and he could see his right drawn back in preparation for another blow. Through the shock and the pain, fury of his own suddenly exploded, and he came down hard on Don's left arm with both fists, twisting away at the same time. Don's left hand came loose, and suddenly free, Charlie let fly with a punch of his own, a glancing blow off Don's shoulder, as he tried to stumble away.

Don dove for him, wrapping his arms around Charlie's middle, and they staggered backwards, hitting the back of the sofa and knocking over a lamp on the table next to it before they dropped to the floor. Charlie was on the bottom as they hit, and the jolt, followed by his brother's heavier body on top of him, knocked the wind out of him – or perhaps it was the look on Don's face. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before – his brother's handsome, usually composed features were a mask of hatred.

Don was grinning maniacally, and he drove another fist into Charlie's torso. It connected with his rib cage, with a nasty crack.

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In the control booth, the three men were watching the monitors, tensely, so absorbed they didn't hear Ziegler step quietly back into room. "Back him off," ordered Wilkes, abruptly.

Jamison spoke into the microphone. "Enough. Don't leave any visible marks. Back off, let him up."

They watched as a fist came down again into Charlie's gut, and his face twisted in pain.

"Back off!" ordered Jamison. "Now, or you'll ruin your chance to finally get rid of him!"

"Take the current down," snapped Wilkes to Korb. "Now!"

"It's already down to nearly zero," protested Korb, but even as he spoke, they saw Don clamber to his feet, and look down at Charlie with an expression of confusion.

Wilkes shot a glance at the monitor, which registered emotional responses in a series of bars on a chart. The negative emotions were fading, and bars indicating positive emotions were flickering to life, beginning to grow. "Back up, back up!" he said sharply, "you're losing him. Get him back to steady state."

"I'm trying," said Korb, through gritted teeth, his hands flying over the knobs. "He's the toughest SOB to control that I've ever handled."

The bars began to morph again, changing back to negative emotions, and the men held their breath, watching.

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Charlie was struggling to regain his breath as he scuttled awkwardly backwards, trying to put distance between himself and his brother. Don was still standing over him; the look of hatred had faded and had been replaced by a look of stunned confusion, but even as Charlie watched, it changed back again to a darker expression, as Don regained composure. At that moment, a man in flak gear burst through the kitchen door, followed by another. "We heard a crash. What's going on in here?" the first man demanded, as Charlie climbed to his feet, painfully.

Don smiled, "Aw, we were screwing around, and Charlie fell." He looked at Charlie, smiling, but his eyes were cold, daring him to disagree.

Charlie stood, still breathing heavily, trying to straighten. Each breath sent a spear of pain through his rib cage. He forced a crooked smile and it came out as a grimace, as Masters appeared in the doorway behind the two men. "I should know better than to wrestle him," Charlie managed, between breaths. "He always wins."

Masters' eyes narrowed as he took in the lamp on the floor, and he looked closely at Charlie. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." Charlie straightened a bit more as if to prove it, fighting the urge to put a hand over his sore ribs.

Masters gave them an odd expression, but turned, shaking his head. "Keep a lid on it, guys. I don't want to take anyone to the hospital." The other men followed him out, with a last glance at the brothers.

Charlie looked at Don, and the cold expression of triumph in his brother's eyes hit him like another blow. His mind was reeling; his body aching, and the turn of events had left him stunned, nauseated, heart-sick. He backed away slowly, and when he was sure Don wasn't following, made his way painfully upstairs. Don watched him go without a word, and then turned, picked up the lamp and set it back on the table, and went into the kitchen.

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Wilkes, Korb and Jamison breathed a collective sigh of relief and sat back in their chairs, only to start when Ziegler spoke behind them. "A close one, but nicely done."

Korb shook his head and ran a hand over his crew cut. "Don's a tough one. He keeps fluctuating – just when I think I have him in steady state, I get breakthrough familial love coming through, and I have to change the settings. To top it off, he's naturally got a bit of a temper, and they've apparently got some history, so if I go too far the other way, it's easy to get him too pissed off to handle."

"It was interesting that Charlie didn't rat him out," said Ziegler. "It might be harder to get him to run than we thought." He changed the subject. "Allman has a man coming out to the Craftsman within the hour – he'll tell Masters, the agent in charge, that he was sent to sweep for bugs, but instead, he'll put in the cameras. We should get a much better view of things going forward."

Wilkes grunted. "After this, I think we're gonna need it."

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End Chapter 22


	23. Chapter 23

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 23**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: My humble thanks to all for the reviews - they are a fanfic writer's only reward, and I appreciate every single one of them. Luvnumb3rs, you asked for a bonus chapter, and here it is. Next posting on my usual Tuesday..._

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The CIA operative, Mike Tate, finished installing the camera in the living room vent of the Craftsman, and trudged upstairs. A half hour earlier, he had arrived in a truck wearing a coverall that advertised him as a heating and air conditioning repair man, and had reported in to Masters, flashing his CIA badge, saying he was there to sweep for bugs.

The operative didn't question why Masters and the others, obviously federal personnel, weren't allowed to know that the CIA was pretending to remove bugs, and was instead actually installing cameras. He'd learned over the years that the CIA often had its own agenda, not all of it legal. That was one of the reasons the other branches disliked and mistrusted them. The nickname "spooks" wasn't necessarily bandied about with affection. Not that it mattered to Tate – if he had a thin skin, he wouldn't be in this line of work.

He'd been told the barest minimum he needed to do the job – that two men, brothers, were in the house, under federal protection. One of them, the younger, was a double agent, and was under surveillance by the CIA – that man, Charlie Eppes, wasn't to know that Tate was there to install cameras. In fact, the only man who was allowed to know what Tate was doing was his brother, Don Eppes – who, Tate surmised, was in deep, and obviously working for the CIA.

He stopped upstairs at a closed bedroom door and knocked, and a man answered it. Don Eppes – Tate had been sent pictures of both men when he'd been given the assignment. "Jon Wilkes sent me," he said quietly, and Don opened the door and let him in, shutting it behind him. "I'm installing cameras," he told Eppes, "so you don't have to wear your jacket in the house. Wilkes said to tell you to keep it quiet – don't tell Charlie or any of the others. And Wilkes told me to give you this."

He opened his tool case, lifted out the top section, and pulled a knife in an ankle sheath out of the bottom. He handed it to Don. "Wilkes wanted you to have this. He said you'd know what it was for."

Don Eppes pulled the blade out of the sheath to examine it, and it glinted wickedly in the lamplight. Tate went immediately to work, and in five minutes had a camera installed in the upper vent. It was record time; he was glad to be out of there – he didn't like the look in the other man's eyes. It was – not quite right. He was telling himself that he was a dumb-ass, and that he should have given him the knife _after_ he installed the camera, instead of before, as he stepped down the hallway to the next bedroom, and knocked again. A man's voice answered – dead, dull, defeated, yet with a hint of wariness.

"Yes."

The operative opened the door. A young man was lying on the bed – Charlie Eppes, he recognized him from the picture; there was no mistaking the hair. He was lying on his side; curled up as if in pain, and when the door opened, he sat up, awkwardly, wincing. The operative flashed his badge. "I'm here to sweep for bugs," he said. The young man merely nodded, silently.

He'd thought he'd have to work carefully to keep Charlie Eppes from seeing what he was actually doing, but the young man moved slowly to his desk and sat with his head down, pretending to look at papers while the operative worked. He never looked up, even when the operative left the room.

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The operative's next stop was Don Eppes' apartment, and following that, the FBI building. He arrived there at around midnight, with a faked contract that said he had permission to clean out the heating vents during the off shifts on five floors – one of them, the floor that housed the FBI offices. He tried that floor first, but even at that hour, there were agents there, still working. Still, he moved out of the hallway near the elevators and took a quick walk through the bullpen, before explaining to one of the agents he'd be back later that night, so he wouldn't disturb them.

The reason for his brief stroll was to get a glimpse of the offices for his command, Dr. Allman. He was wearing a camera himself to record the images, and as he stepped out of the elevator onto the deserted floor above, he opened his cell phone, and dialed. "Did you get the video feed?"

"Yes," came Allman's voice. "We found it very interesting. I would like you to proceed with the camera installation – target the bullpen and all of the conference rooms, especially the glass-walled room. One of my people wants you to check the room out and tell me how secure it is – find out whether it is really glass or a composite, and whether the door locks, and report back to us."

"It'll be a little while," said Tate. "There are people still working in there. Give me a couple of hours." At Allman's agreement and dismissal, he closed the phone, sat down at a desk, and unwrapped an energy bar.

At about the same time, a late arriving flight from Washington, D.C. touched down at LAX, a few miles away, and Megan Reeves stepped off the plane, and strode down the familiar concourse.

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The window shade was outlined with the gray of dawn, and Charlie blinked at it wearily; he had gotten very little sleep. He was huddled under his comforter on his right side; his left ribcage throbbed, and pain stabbed at him whenever he moved. The physical pain wasn't the only thing that had kept him awake, however. The ache in his heart was far worse.

He kept trying to get his mind around the fight that had occurred the evening before, and was failing miserably. Don apparently was furious at him for what had happened at the end of their undercover operation – he blamed Charlie for the accident, because he blamed him for taking the undercover job to begin with. That was bad enough, although Charlie thought he might be able to handle it if Don was simply angry, and was letting off steam. That wasn't the case; however, Don wasn't merely angry – the words he had chosen, the look of hatred in his eyes made it clear that he knew he might be doing irreparable damage to their relationship – and he didn't care. Don didn't care if the relationship continued or not – in fact it seemed as though he would rather it didn't – and he apparently didn't care if they ever resurrected it again or not. Inconceivably, their budding connection as friends, as true brothers was over, and Charlie had no idea why.

He closed his eyes tightly as Don's harsh words echoed in his head once again. "_selfish – you've always been selfish…," _The worst part of this was that it seemed that Don's feelings were rooted not only in what had just happened during the undercover assignment, but deep in the past. There was a chance that his brother had always felt this way, and for some reason was only now finally admitting it. It didn't jive; however, with the brother that Charlie had left in New Orleans. It was as though a stranger had come home in his place.

He stirred, painfully. The room was chilly and he didn't want to move, but he hadn't been out of his bedroom since early evening the night before, and nature called. Maybe it was best to get up now – it was early; Don would still be asleep. He stifled a gasp as he pushed himself upright, and shuddered as his feet hit the floor and the cool air swirled around his bare legs. Slowly, hunched like an old man, he shuffled through the room and collected clean underwear and sweats. He might as well get a shower while he was in there. He looked out into the hallway before proceeding, listening. The house was quiet.

In the bathroom, he slipped off his T-shirt, gingerly, and surveyed his chest in the mirror. There were bruises on his abdomen, but the worst damage was to his left rib cage. It was swollen and already turning odd colors; Charlie had no doubt that Don had cracked a rib. He swallowed another upwelling of emotional pain, and turned to the shower.

He ran it hot, almost scalding – the heat felt good on his ribs. After he was finished, he dried off carefully, ran some mousse through his hair, and shaved. He needed to appear normal. One thing was certain, he was not letting Rogan and Masters know what had happened – not until he found out why Don was acting this way. He had to know why, or he couldn't fix it – whatever it was. Deep down, he wondered if it was fixable – but he knew he had to try. If Rogan and Masters knew what had happened, they'd take him out of there, away from Don, and then he might never find out.

Don's bedroom door was closed, and he paused in front of it. For a moment, he had the wild urge to go inside and sit on his brother's bed, as he had when they were children and something was bothering him. Often Don would shoo him away, but sometimes, especially when they'd argued, Don would let him stay, and they'd talk. Not about the argument – young boys didn't do that, it was mushy – but about other things, letting each other know from their words and their mannerisms that things were okay again, that the argument was over. For just an instant, Charlie wondered if he should try. Maybe a good night's sleep and the light of day would make things okay again. Then he remembered the murderous look in Don's eye the night before. He shuddered, and shuffled quickly for the stairs.

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Don rolled restlessly in his bed, eyes closed but moving under the lids, caught in a dream. It wasn't based on past events; it had never happened, but somehow, it had a familiar sense about it. He was twelve, he was in the garage, and seven-year-old Charlie was backed into a corner, terror in his big dark eyes. It was crystal-clear; Don could feel the heat of the summer day, smell the familiar dusty-oily scent of the garage; see his brother's curls, so dark against the pale face.

Charlie had his hands up in front of him. "No, Donnie," he whimpered, "please, I'm sorry." He was trembling, terrified, and Don was advancing towards him relentlessly.

He could feel horror deep inside; he knew what he was about to do, and he desperately wanted to stop, but somehow, he couldn't. He could sense his own face, twisted in a snarl of hatred, feel his fists balling, and he raised his arm to strike…

"Unnh!" He sat up, gasping for air, sweating, shaking, jolted awake. His head was throbbing – he'd had constant headaches over the past several days, and they were getting worse. For a split second, there was something else – another feeling besides hatred and abhorrence, a mingled sense of sorrow and love. Then the hatred came seeping back, blotting out all else, displacing any other emotion, negating good memories, leaving only bad. His breathing slowed, his features relaxed, his eyes turned cold. Seven-fifteen a.m. It was another day.

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"Hey, George, you're falling asleep at the wheel, man. Look at his bar chart."

The Team A leader at the command center, a man named Johnson, spoke sharply to the technician, who grunted and blinked, and glanced at the video feed from Don Eppes' room. Eppes was sitting up in bed, obviously shaken, and the bars on the monitor indicated that his brain had drifted over to positive emotions again. The technician fiddled with the knobs in front of him. "Damn – he's a tough one – he keeps getting breakthrough, even in his sleep."

"Well, get him into shape. Ziegler could walk in at any minute – you want him to see that?"

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A.D. Wright strode into the bullpen of the L.A. FBI offices and stopped short, as a familiar figure caught his eyes. He frowned and made his way over to her. "Megan Reeves!" he exclaimed. "Let me guess – you got tired of your counseling assignment and decided you want your old job back."

She grinned up at him, and clasped his proffered hand. "No such luck. I came out to L.A. to visit friends, and thought I'd stop in to see Colby and David."

David had walked up behind her, and winked at the A.D. "She means to say that we aren't her friends."

She swiveled in the chair and swatted at him. "I do not – you know what I meant." She rose, smiled at A.D. Wright, and dropped her voice. "Actually, I came here to see what was up with Don and Charlie."

Wright grimaced slightly. "I know – Colby told me you were the one who started all the questions." He cocked his head at her. "You still have all your clearances?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right, you can come on in and listen. I'm warning you in advance – I don't know much, so there's not much to listen to."

In spite of his statement, he didn't use the glass conference room – too public. Instead, he guided Megan, David, and Colby into a smaller one, and shut the door. He looked at Megan. "Ordinarily, Reeves, I'd tell a civilian to hit the road, but the Director thought it better to include you in the discussion, since you already knew something was afoot. I think he was afraid you'd go around asking more questions." He looked at David and Colby. "And you two; be aware that this doesn't go beyond this room. If anyone asks where Don is, you can tell him the cover story – he and Charlie were at Quantico developing a course and were in a small accident, no serious injuries, but they needed a couple weeks to recuperate. Then they're going back out to finish the course."

Colby frowned. "Going back out?"

Wright sighed. "Here is what I can tell you – they were obviously not at Quantico, as Megan found. They were on an undercover assignment – I was not told where, or what – it's highly classified."

"Wait," said David, grinning. "Charlie – our Charlie – undercover?'

Wright nodded, soberly, and David's grin faded. "Whatever it is, it's big stuff," said Wright. "I was told they finished the assignment, and are going to testify in two weeks. The car accident wasn't a random occurrence – it was an attempt on their lives, although I understand that even though their covers were broken, their real names weren't compromised. They have protection, but it's just a precaution - no one should know to look for them here. That is why it is imperative for their safety that you reinforce their cover story."

Colby raised his eyebrows. "Wow."

"Indeed," responded Wright. "Now if you three are done poking around, we can move on." He looked at Megan, a glint of humor in his eyes. "Although, since you're here, and you all are fairly close to the Eppes, for appearances it wouldn't hurt for you to pay them a visit and wish them a speedy recovery."

She grinned back at him. "Well, maybe we'll just do that. Thank you, sir."

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Ziegler pursed his lips and watched the monitors – there were two of them; one on Charlie Eppes, who was in the dining room, and one on Don Eppes, in the kitchen, as the Team A leader, Johnson, spoke. "It sure is nice having the individual rooms wired – we can see what the target is doing when he's in a different room." He paused reflectively. "You know, I can't figure it. Charlie Eppes doesn't seem the type that would be involved in something so deep that we can't even clue in the other agencies."

Ziegler shrugged. "When you've seen as much as I have, you'd know that there is no type when it comes to double agents. Who knows – maybe he's tied up in something that would compromise some of our agents, or other missions. It's not the first time we've been asked to do something like this. Allman told me that even our own Director doesn't know about this one – at least officially. They apparently want to maintain deniability. That's a sure sign that this op is extremely sensitive."

"Yeah, I suppose that could be," said Johnson reflectively. "I guess they are taking pains to make this look like a domestic argument – it's quite the cover-up." He shook his head, looking at Charlie on the monitor. "I just can't see that one as a double agent. Of course, maybe that's why he's good at it." He looked up at Ziegler. "I was reading the reports – you and Team B staged an altercation yesterday between them yesterday; I understand you're going to try to make the target run. Do you want us to do something today?"

"Not yet," said Ziegler. The truth was, he was contemplating making the attempt that day, but he wanted the B team on when they tried it – Jamison, Wilkes, and Korb. They were the team that had turned Eppes; they had the best chance of controlling him in what would be an unpredictable situation. "In fact," he said to Johnson, "I want you to keep them apart if you can."

Don Eppes had turned out to be a challenge; that was certain. Ziegler had doubts that they would be able to manage him for too long – he was too volatile, too unstable, too strong-minded. The sooner they dealt with Charlie, the better. It was hard to tell exactly how things would go – he had a plan that would hopefully put Charlie and Don in a public place, where others could witness the murder but couldn't intercede. It would all depend on getting Charlie to run where they wanted him to go – if he did, he would be a dead man. If not, they would back Don off, and wait for another opportunity. Ziegler, however, had a good feeling about this. His eyes rested on the slight figure in the dining room. By the end of the day, if all went well, Charles Eppes would be dead.

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End Chapter 23


	24. Chapter 24

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 24**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

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Charlie looked up as Don came out of the kitchen and headed toward the living room. His brother hadn't even spared him a glance since he'd come downstairs that morning, and at first, Charlie was relieved, but he knew they needed to talk. It appeared that he would need to be the one to start the conversation. He rose stiffly from the dining room chair, and moved slowly, tentatively into the living room, where Don had settled into the sofa with a cup of coffee, and was opening the newspaper. Charlie cleared his throat. "Don."

Don ignored him, and scanned the front page of the paper. Slightly nonplussed, Charlie waited a moment, then said, "About yesterday -,"

"I don't want to talk about it." Don's voice was cool, matter-of-fact.

"Don, how can we not talk about that?" Charlie still spoke quietly, but a note of protest crept into his voice. His gut clenched, and he tensed, waiting for an explosion.

A look of impatience flashed over Don's face, and he said sharply, "I said I don't want to talk about it. Not now. We'll talk later."

Charlie hesitated a moment, and Don turned back to the paper. Maybe it was better not to push the issue, Charlie thought to himself. He could afford to wait until Don was ready to talk – they had two weeks before the hearings, after all. To be honest, he was afraid to force the conversation – he had to admit, after yesterday, that he was afraid of his own brother.

He heard the sound of the back door opening, and as he turned, he saw Rogan stick his head through the kitchen door. "Morning," he said. "I don't mean to interrupt, but we got a piece of news this morning that might interest you. They found two bodies in Turtle Bayou, which turned out to be the Clemenceau brothers. They were shot – our guess is by Pierre Montreaux, before he took off for the Canadian border, although of course he is not admitting it. It kind of pokes a hole in our cocaine case against Montreaux, though – he is saying the Clemenceaus ran that business on their own, and now they're not around to deny that."

"I met with Montreaux personally after I signed Blinkie on to do business with him. It was only one meeting, but we specifically discussed cocaine," Don replied.

Rogan nodded. "Yeah – we have that, although there were no witnesses – it will be his word against yours. That's good, but we were hoping to get the Clemenceaus to deal to save their own skins. Pierre's locked up tighter than a drum – so is Jack. Neither one of them is going to talk. We're gonna have to do this the hard way."

Don grunted. "Yeah, okay. Thanks for the info."

Rogan nodded. "You guys doing okay?" He looked at Charlie, and Charlie could sense Don's eyes on him.

"Yeah, fine," said Charlie. "There's coffee in the kitchen – help yourself."

"Thanks," said Rogan. "Masters and I are probably going to head to a hotel this evening – your surveillance team is set up and they know what they need to do. Bill and I are going to head out around six and grab some dinner, then get some sleep. You probably saw the SUV parked outside last night at the curb – we take it off during the day while Bill and I are here, but it'll be back when we leave. If you have a problem, grab or signal one of those guys in the SUV – one of them will be in charge in our absence. I'll leave you his cell phone number and a name before I go. We don't anticipate any problems." He gave them a nod and he ducked back through the door.

Don turned back to his paper, and Charlie studied him for a moment. While in discussion with Rogan, his brother seemed perfectly normal, and had appeared normal while talking to their father, yesterday. It seemed the only time Don was acting oddly was when he was interacting with him. The thought wasn't comforting.

He hesitated, wondering what to do with himself. The kitchen and dining room chairs weren't very comfortable to sit in for a long period, especially with his sore ribs. The living room wasn't comfortable for another reason – Don clearly didn't want him around. The garage was occupied by agents. He shot Don one more apprehensive look, and shuffled off for the solarium.

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J. Scott Marsh stood waiting just inside the airport security checkpoint, as Joe Bishop stepped through the scanner, picked up his bag, and walked toward him. He began walking, and Bishop fell into step beside him. "What's this about?" he asked quietly.

Marsh motioned to a quiet recess in the wall, and they stepped out of the foot traffic; passengers headed for their gates. "I was told to get hold of you and to get back down to New Orleans," he said, in a low voice. "That's all I know. We're going to get instructions once we get down there. Did you tell anyone you were leaving?"

Bishop shook his head. "You said not to." He eyed him curiously. "Do you think this is related to our previous case?"

Marsh shrugged. "I have no idea. What airport are you flying into?"

"Mobile," responded Bishop. "You?"

"Pensacola," said Marsh. "I'll contact you when we're on the ground."

Bishop nodded and moved off toward his gate, and Marsh watched him go. He'd gotten a call that afternoon from Allman that the assassination attempt was going down that evening, and he'd decided it was high time to dispose of Joe Bishop - only Bishop and Allman knew that Marsh was the man who come up with the idea to Don Eppes to Cypress Institute. It needed to be done in a manner that would point the finger of suspicion at Bishop if anything went wrong, and if the attempt to kill Charles Eppes was successful, Marsh would need to consider taking out Allman, too. If that happened, he wanted to frame Bishop for Allman's murder, and to do that, he needed Bishop in New Orleans, with Allman. So he had called him that afternoon, and told them they'd been given an urgent mission about which they were to tell no one – they were to fly into the airports of nearby cities and drive to New Orleans, and then wait for further instructions. The other agent didn't question it – as a fixer, Bishop was used to getting odd assignments on a moment's notice, and Marsh outranked him; it was plausible that Marsh might be asked to give him orders. Joe Bishop didn't know it, but he was embarking on his last mission.

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Megan fingered her consultant's badge, and waited for Colby to get off the phone. It was nearly three-thirty p.m. and she had spent the day back in the saddle, so to speak. Before their meeting had broken up with Wright that morning, an idea had occurred to David. The team was working a two-murder case that might or might not be serial killings, and they needed a profiler. He'd suggested that Wright hire Megan as a consultant for a day or two while she was in L.A. to have her examine the evidence, including the M.O. She had hesitated when Wright made the offer – it was great to see her old team members, but she really had no inclination to return to her old job. In the end though, she accepted – it would give her another reason to be able to stick around for a bit and to see her old friends, and face it, she was intensely curious as to what was going with Don and Charlie. Plus, it was only for a day or two, so she'd agreed, and had worked alongside David and Colby and the new agent, Nikki, for the better part of the day, until it was time to head for Charlie's house. She had to admit, she did miss it, just a little.

Colby hung up the phone, and looked up at David and Megan. "Okay, I'm done for now. Let's go."

"Anything?" she asked him.

"Your profile gave us a couple of leads – we've got a guy we're trying to run down named Stanley Riggs. Nikki and Agent Thompson are out looking for him," said Colby. "We'll go see Don and Charlie, maybe stop and grab a bite to eat afterward, and then come back in later this evening to see what they found."

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Paul Ziegler watched the monitor trained on the Craftsman living room, intently. Thanks to the cameras installed at the FBI offices, he'd witnessed the meeting that morning between the three agents and A. D. Wright. It had given him time to find out the identity of the woman – a former agent named Megan Reeves. He watched now as the group entered the house, and spoke to Wilkes. "We need to pay attention to how Charlie interacts with them – I want to assess the likelihood that he'll run to the FBI offices if he realizes that Don really intends to harm him. Based on the fact that he covered for Don yesterday, I'm betting he wouldn't go to strangers with his suspicions. We need to be prepared for the most likely places he'd go for help if we flushed him out. Cal Sci might be another place, but I understand that his closest colleagues are currently in Europe. We need to be ready for any eventuality, but I would like to try to steer him toward the FBI offices. We know the layout there, and I can put in a man to help us control the situation."

Wilkes nodded. At Ziegler's request, his team had come in to start their shift three hours early. All of them knew it was going down that night, and they were ready.

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Megan grinned mischievously as Don opened the living room door, and his face registered surprise, and then a welcoming smile. "Megan Reeves," he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

She smiled. "I was in town and stopped by the office. I mentioned I was dropping by to see you two, and Colby and David decided to come, too."

David caught Don's guarded glance out the doorway, and interpreted correctly that his SAC was looking for signs of the surveillance team. "We called ahead and got permission to visit from Agent Masters," he said quietly. "Wright filled us in – well, a little bit, anyway. We don't know what you and Charlie are working on, but we do know you just finished an assignment, and are under protective surveillance." Don sent him a sharp glance, then he nodded his understanding.

Megan's gaze swept the room. "Where's Charlie?"

"Solarium," said Don, impassively. "I'll get him. Have a seat."

Don returned moments later, and Megan caught a glimpse of the almost obscured scar above his left ear. Charlie followed him into the room a few seconds later, moving a little more slowly than normally, and carefully, as if he was in pain. Megan's brows knitted sympathetically as she stepped forward. "Charlie – it looks like you're still recovering from your accident," she said, and moved to give him a light hug.

His eyes registered warmth as they looked at her, but something else lurked in their depths, and she tried to place it. "Megan," he said, "what a nice surprise. Larry's going to be jealous."

She grinned. "That's what he gets for running off to Europe."

Charlie nodded at Colby and David, who were looking at him with identical slight frowns. "I'll get us something to drink," said Charlie. "Do any of you want a beer?"

"I do," said Colby, his face relaxing into a grin, "but we've got to go back into the office tonight, so I'll have to pass. Maybe an iced tea, if you've got it."

"I'll help," said Megan, looking at Charlie speculatively as he shot a nervous glance at Don. He seemed quiet, subdued, almost – frightened. It was a look she'd seen on more than one victim's face in her new line of work – it was usually worn by women terrified of abusive husbands, afraid to speak in their presence. She shook herself mentally as she followed him into the kitchen. She was imagining things. There was no reason on earth that Charlie would look that way.

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Ziegler focused on the kitchen monitor as Charlie and Megan Reeves entered, and he motioned to Wilkes. "Turn up the sound."

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Charlie got a pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator as Megan began pulling glasses out of a cabinet. He set the pitcher down on the counter, and turned toward her, his face troubled. "Megan – do you know anything about head trauma and personality changes? I've done some research myself, but I'd like to know what you think."

She turned to face him, her eyes searching his face. "Yes – I know a bit. Usually it's a result of significant trauma, however – a mild or even moderate concussion generally doesn't produce a permanent personality change. Why? Are you talking about Don?"

He looked away, and again she was reminded of a victim of abuse. "I don't know – yes, I mean. It just seems as though he's really moody – not all the time, though." '_Just with me,_' he added to himself.

"Moodiness can be normal after a concussion, and after a stressful situation," she said gently. "Generally, permanent personality changes are the result of damage to the prefrontal cortex, and Don's injury was on the side of his head, if Colby told me correctly." She smiled, trying to lighten the conversation. "Maybe he just needs some follow-up sessions with Bradford."

Her gentle teasing failed to get him to smile; instead, she saw him glance toward the kitchen door, a flash of fear in his face, as the voices rose in the other room. David, Colby, and Don were joking – ribbing each other about something, and as it became obvious that the noise was friendly, that they were laughing, she saw Charlie relax. She frowned, studying him. "Charlie, are you okay?"

He looked at her as if startled by the question, and then turned away from her toward the counter, and busied himself with pouring iced tea. "Yeah," he said softly. "We're fine."

_'We're fine_,' she thought. _'An odd choice of words, considering I only asked about him.'_ "You have my phone number, right?" she said. "If you need to talk, I'll be at the offices tonight and the next day or two with David and Colby. Wright roped me into helping them on a case."

He nodded; head down. "Yeah, thanks. It's in my cell phone." He looked up at her and grinned ruefully. "Even if it wasn't, I remember it."

She could tell he was trying to close the subject, but she let him, and held the door as he carried out a tray of glasses. He set them on the coffee table, and then, even though there was an open seat on the sofa next to Don, he retreated to the far side of the room – as far away as he could get, and still hear the conversation.

It was a short visit – they kept the conversation light, inconsequential. They could hardly talk about Don and Charlie's undercover assignment, after all. Megan found herself watching Don, looking for evidence of mood swings, but could find none. Don seemed to be acting normally as far as she could tell, although he didn't speak a word to Charlie during the whole exchange. Of course, Charlie was unusually quiet, himself. She left feeling oddly unsettled, and sat quietly in the back seat of David's vehicle on the way back to the office.

"Maybe we should get just some takeout then, huh, Megan?" Colby was talking to her, she realized suddenly.

"I'm sorry – what, Colby?"

"Nikki sent me a text message – they found Riggs."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Takeout's fine. We can eat back at the office." She paused for a minute. "Did either of you guys notice anything odd back there?"

She saw them exchange a glance of mild surprise in the front seat. "No," said David, shaking his head.

"You know, now that you mention it, Charlie seemed quiet," said Colby, thoughtfully. "It looked like he was pretty stiff – I didn't notice that yesterday. He must have gotten banged up in the accident. It's funny though – I could have sworn he was moving around fairly easily yesterday."

"You know how that is," said David. "You feel good, you try to do too much, and you pay for it the next day."

"Yeah, you're probably right," said Colby. He glanced back at Megan. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "I don't know," she murmured. "Nothing I could put my finger on." She looked out the window, a slight furrow of worry between her brows.

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End, Chapter 24

_A/N: All hell starts to break loose in the next chapter, maybe tomorrow, if I can get my act together... _


	25. Chapter 25

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 25**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: thanks for the reviews, all. No double life here, Patty. I'm just a businesswoman with a husband and two kids. Mwa ha ha..._

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Mike Tate, the CIA operative, walked into the lobby of the FBI building, flashed his badge at the security officer, and signed in as requested, using an alias. He nodded at the officer, then proceeded down the main hallway and turned to a side hall just past the elevators. About halfway down the hall, he stepped into the men's restroom, entered a stall, and removed his suit, revealing a security uniform underneath. He folded the suit, and making sure that no one else was watching, stepped out of the stall, and lifted the lid from a trash receptacle. Pulling the plastic liner away from the side, he deposited the suit underneath it, for later retrieval, if necessary. The he readjusted the liner and replaced the triangular top of the can, and stepped back out into the side hallway. He moved down to where it joined the main hallway, but stayed at the corner, out of sight of the security guard down at the front entrance, still sitting at his desk. He knew the man was due to go off duty in fifteen minutes, and his replacement would not realize that Mike was the same man who had just walked in, wearing a suit instead of a security uniform.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the man that Allman had directed him to call, Agent Ziegler. "I'm in place. If he comes this way, I'll be ready."

Then he tucked his phone away and waited.

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Ziegler looked at his watch. It was about six-thirty L.A. time, and from the FBI camera feed, he could see the two agents and Reeves returning to the office, bearing takeout bags containing dinner. The office had cleared out for the evening, and other than Granger, Sinclair, Reeves, a woman agent and A. D. Wright, the bullpen was empty. Just enough of an audience, he thought. He watched as Granger, Sinclair and Reeves walked down the hall to one of the smaller conference rooms, which they appeared to be using as a war room for the case, and the other agent, a woman with dark curly hair whom they called Nikki, joined them. The assistant director of the L.A. office, Wright, was already in the conference room – Ziegler couldn't have collected a better group to witness the killing if he'd tried. Now, the trick would be to get Charlie Eppes to run to them.

Ziegler glanced at the other monitors, which showed Charlie in the kitchen, and Don in the living room of the Craftsman. He looked at the Team B members. "Okay, let's get this rolling."

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Charlie jumped as the door to the kitchen swung open with a bang, and turned quickly, too quickly; the pain in his rib cage made him gasp. Don swaggered through the doorway, his body tight, like a coiled spring.

"So, you said you wanted to talk?" he said. He was smiling, but his eyes were menacing.

Charlie stared at him, startled. Don had barely spoken to him all day, and now here he was, abruptly looking for conversation. The countertop pressed into his lower back and he realized that he had backed up against it. "Okay," he said trying to keep his voice even. "Let's go sit down in the living room."

Don shrugged, and pushed out back through the door. It appeared as though he was heading for the sofa, but as soon as they were through the door, he swung around suddenly, and Charlie stopped abruptly, facing him. They were in almost the same spot where they'd started the argument the last evening. Charlie caught his breath. Don's face was transformed; the cool impassive expression was gone, and his face was twisted as it had been the night before, pure hatred glinting from his eyes.

Don lifted a finger, jabbing it in his direction. "I'll bet you want to talk," he snarled. He winced suddenly, as if his head hurt, but it passed as quickly as it had come, and he continued as if it hadn't happened. "That's right up your alley – talk your way out of things, talk people into giving you your way – you've done it for years. You and your passive-aggressive, bullshit manipulation."

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"…passive-aggressive, bullshit manipulation." Jamison's voice floated through the speakers from the soundproof booth in the control room, and Ziegler nodded in approval. "He's pretty good."

"He's the best," said Wilkes succinctly. "He starts with knowledge of common sources of contention between subjects – with a spouse, it could be money, with siblings, natural feelings of competition. Then he researches the subjects, finds out all he can, and then finds out still more during the programming process. We run the initial sessions like psychotherapy – get the subject we're trying to program to talk about his relationship with others, and gradually home in on the person that we want him to eliminate. Jamison takes bits and pieces of fact, and twists them into something more negative – he's a genius."

"I'm done with it, Charlie!" Jamison was saying.

Wilkes spoke to Korb. "Take his decision centers down to about halfway, and start ramping up the rage."

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"I'm done with it, Charlie!" Don spat, and took a step forward. His fists clenched. The blackness inside was growing, consuming him…

Charlie backed up a step and raised his hands. This was so familiar, just like the night before, and yet, he couldn't shake a feeling of disbelief. Something was so horribly wrong – this couldn't be his brother speaking to him, it couldn't be. He was suddenly certain he needed to convince Don to get back to a hospital. Maybe they hadn't fixed the bleed in his brain correctly, he told himself; maybe there was pressure building inside Don's head, causing him to act strangely. "I don't want to fight with you," he said, taking another step backward.

Don's lip curled in a snarl. "You wouldn't, you little slime-ball. You'd rather weasel your way out, once again, with words. Just once, _just once_ I'd like to see you stand up and fight like a man."

He lunged suddenly, but this time Charlie was ready for him, and feinted left, then dodged right, bringing his left arm up under Don's forearm, pushing it up and away enough to dart sideways. At the same time, he lunged, himself, planting his left foot behind Don's, and then suddenly reversed direction and pushed into his brother's upper body. Don's left foot was trapped, and his body tilted backwards. Charlie let him go, let him stumble back, arms windmilling. He'd learned the move in his FBI self-defense courses, and it was enough to give him a second or two, a brief expanse of daylight. He ran for the stairs, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, glancing back only once, to see Don totter into the sofa, and catch himself on the back of it.

He flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time, running down the hallway to his room and slamming the door, suddenly feeling ridiculous as a memory surfaced – Don playing monster as a kid, chasing him up the stairs. He'd barge into the room, delighting in Charlie's squeals and his hysterical laughter as he grabbed his younger brother and tickled him. Charlie paused for minute behind his door, breathing heavily – he could hear nothing, and he felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his face. He'd run like a child, fearing the worst.

Still, a lurking panic resonated in the back of his head, and he darted over to his desk and shuffled papers, looking for his cell phone. Megan. She was at the FBI offices tonight, and she'd told him he could call her – she'd give him advice; maybe she could even help him talk Don into getting a check-up. He spied the phone and snatched it, scrolling to her number in the directory just as the door banged open behind him.

Charlie whirled, going chalk-white as he saw Don's face, infused with fury. His brother crossed the room with two strides and tore the phone from Charlie's hand, as he stood there paralyzed with momentary, unreasonable terror. The monster had chased him up the stairs, and into his room.

"Who're you calling, Chuck?" Don rasped. His head jerked in an odd, involuntary spasm, and Charlie swallowed hard, not daring to respond. Don glanced down at the phone and the name and number on the display. "Megan? You calling Megan?" His voice rose and he advanced, tossing the phone on the desk, his eyes fixed on Charlie's, glaring. "You're trying to turn my own friends against me?!"

Charlie began to back up, but his foot caught in a section of comforter that drooped onto the floor from his unmade bed, and as he stumbled and glanced downward involuntarily, Don lurched forward and grabbed him, one hand finding his Charlie's arm, the other his shirt. They fell together onto the bed, bouncing off that onto the floor, and Charlie's head swam as his injured rib cage was jolted by the contact.

He gasped for air; it turned out to be fortuitous, because suddenly Don's hands were around his throat, his brother's face, ugly with rage, inches from his own, muttering curses, as his fingers cut off Charlie's air supply. Charlie grasped Don's wrists, pried at his fingers, trying to get him to release his grip, his efforts growing more frantic as oxygen in his body dwindled. Wild realization burst into his head – Don wasn't kidding, wasn't just trying to scare him – he was intent on murder. Charlie's head was reeling; his lungs were going to explode, and with his last bit of strength, he looked up into his brother's eyes with an unspoken prayer. _Oh God, please, Don, please don't…_

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Alan slid out of the Grand Cherokee, his feet crunching as they hit the snow, and looked around. To his right a massive log lodge loomed, and as fascinated as he knew he would be by the architecture of the place, his attention was riveted by the landscape. Stan and their client, the businessman from Juneau named Rory Lannerman, stood for a moment in the sharp cold air, taking in the sight, their breath rising in plumes in the Arctic twilight.

In front of them stretched a lake surrounded by pines, the entire landscape covered with snow, blue in the fading light; and beyond it, the sun had just set, leaving a red glow on the horizon that faded to rose, then peach, then lemon. It was breathtaking, and they stood in silence, savoring it. "Look there," Lannerman said, pointing to their right, beyond the edge of the lodge, and they looked north to see fingers of colored light reaching into the sky.

"Aurora borealis," breathed Alan. "I've never seen it before."

Stan grinned beside him. "We're lucky we can see sky in L.A."

It was a magical world, hushed and beautiful, and Alan could fee the peace seeping into his soul. That sense of peace, the impression of being in another world, stayed with him as he tromped behind Stan into the lodge.

Lannerman had modestly called it a cabin, but it was a truly an architectural marvel, with vaulted ceilings and huge windows. A chandelier fashioned out of elk antlers hung from the cathedral ceiling over the great room, which looked out through enormous picture windows onto the lake. It was filled with comfortable furniture – leather sofas, deep armchairs. They looked inviting; the trip to get there had been exhausting, and included a bumpy flight in a small propeller plan for several hours. It had landed at a tiny airport with one rough landing strip near the tiny town of Berner, and then they'd had a four-hour ride in the Grand Cherokee, some of it over unpaved road. They were truly out in the middle of nowhere.

"I'll rustle up some brandy," said Lannerman. "We'll relax tonight, and start to hit the design concepts tomorrow. It's amazing how much work you can get done out here, without the normal interruptions. Trust me, a few days of this and you won't miss the television or the phone."

Alan grunted affirmation; he was certain he could get used to this. He sighed contentedly, and looked out the window at the last dying vestiges of sunlight – a faint strip of red lay like a pool of blood on the dark horizon.

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"Back it off!" yelled Wilkes, as Korb's hands flew over the dials.

Jamison's voice came over the speakers. "STOP! Not yet, not yet! Think – you need to do this right. Let him go – go to your room, get the knife."

The four men watched the screen, filled with tension, willing Don's hands to release their grip.

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Charlie could feel darkness starting to encroach upon the edges of his vision and his struggles were fading, when Don suddenly relinquished his grip and sat back on his heels, a dazed look on his face. Charlie gasped for air, his lungs burning, and the pain made him close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Don was standing, with a cold expression on his face. He jabbed a finger at Charlie. "I'm not done with you yet," he growled, and grabbing Charlie's cell phone and the handset for the house phone, he stalked out of the room.

For a moment, Charlie could do nothing but breathe – his oxygen-starved limbs were incapable of moving. After a few breaths, however, mobility returned, and he scrambled to his feet, staggering into the bed as he regained them. He pushed off the bed and stumbled for the door, pain and terror and heartbreak all churning inside him, threatening to steal coherent thought. Instinct took over and urged him out into the hall – he had to get out of there, had to get away. Megan, he thought. Megan and Colby and David would know what to do. He couldn't tell anyone else – who knew what they would do to Don if they found out how he was behaving?

He reeled down the hallway, bouncing off the wall, and stopped outside Don's room as a movement inside caught his eye. Don had put on his denim jacket, and was resting his foot on the bed and was strapping a sheath to his leg. Charlie could see the handle of what looked like a knife protruding from it, and for a moment, he wavered, torn between self-preservation and concern for Don, for what he might do. If he harmed someone, it would mean prison. Almost at the same instant, however, he realized that if Don harmed anyone it would be him, and the best thing he could do for both of them would be to get out of there. Don straightened, his head began to turn towards him, and Charlie waited no longer – he headed for the stairs at a run.

He flew down them, breath ragged in his aching throat, somehow keeping his feet as he took the stairs two and three at a time, and as he crossed the living room, he heard Don calling out his name. He didn't stop – he headed right for the front door, and burst through it to the outside.

It was growing dark, and for a split second he paused, wondering where to go. The SUV parked at the curb answered his question – he remembered Rogan saying that it would show up after six, and the men inside would be in charge. Rogan had given him a name – it began with a "T" – he couldn't remember. He sprinted towards it as the two men inside jumped out of the vehicle, and he met them at the passenger side.

"I need to get to the FBI offices," he gasped, throwing a fearful look over his shoulder.

One of the men had already drawn his service weapon and had moved between Charlie and the house, his eyes roving the front of it for possible threats. The other, an NSA agent named Thorn, looked at him. "Calm down, Dr. Eppes," he said. "Why do you need to go there? You're not supposed to leave the house, unless it's an emergency."

"It _is_ an emergency," Charlie pleaded. "I need to get out of here, _now_. I can explain later. If you don't take me, I'll drive myself."

The two men looked at each other. "I'll take him," said Thorn. "You stay here, find out what's going on, and call it in to Masters."

He started around the front of the vehicle, but all three of them turned as Don emerged from the house, yelling, "Charlie, wait!"

A look of pure panic washed over Charlie's face, and he wrenched open the passenger door and jumped in the vehicle. "Hurry!" he commanded. "Don't wait for him!"

Thorn gave him a disconcerted look, but darted around the far end of the vehicle to the driver's side, and yelled to his partner, "Take care of him, Cooperman!" with a jerk of his head toward Don. Then he jumped in and started the vehicle, and pulled away from the curb. He had no idea what was happening, but from the look on Dr. Eppes' face, he was mortally afraid of something, and it was the agent's job to keep him safe. Better to get him away, and ask questions later.

Don immediately swerved to his left, dashing toward the driveway and his own SUV, and the second man holstered his pistol and ran after him. Some of the other members of the surveillance unit had appeared from their hiding spots, and stood standing uncertainly at the front of the house. The man yelled after Don, "Hold on, Eppes – I need to go with you!" and Don turned and looked at him blankly for a moment. The agent caught up to him, and laid a calming hand on his arm.

"I need to go after my brother," said Don, his brows drawn. The words sounded strange, robotic.

"I'm Agent Cooperman," said the man, panting from the dash across the lawn. "We can take your vehicle, but I'll drive you – I know where he's going."

'_Let him drive you,_' said the voice inside Don's head. '_It will be easier when you get there – you won't have to deal with the vehicle. Tell him to hurry_.' Don nodded at Cooperman, and pulled his keys from his pocket. "Okay, but hurry."

"You can tell me what in the hell's happening on the way," said Cooperman. He flung a command over his shoulder to the men as he trotted around the SUV toward the driver's side. "Secure the house, and call this in to Masters. Tell him we're on our way to the FBI offices."

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Hundreds of miles away in the control booth, Team B and Ziegler watched the video feed from the button in Don's jacket, and heard the exchange.

Ziegler smiled. "The FBI offices. Now isn't that just perfect?" He pulled out his cell phone. "I'm calling Agent Tate at the office building, and letting him know that they're heading his way. Everyone understand what to do?" The statement was made to all of them, but Ziegler trained his eyes on Wilkes, who nodded.

"Yeah, we're ready," he said. Wilkes, Korb, and Jamison turned their eyes back to the monitor. Don and the agent had gotten in the vehicle, and the monitor in Don's jacket picked up the view through the windshield, streetlights flashing by as the SUV sped off into the night.

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End, Chapter 25


	26. Chapter 26

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 26**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: This is bad; this is very bad..._

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Agent Pete Thorn glanced over at the figure hunched in the passenger seat beside him. "Okay, now that I violated my general instructions, do you mind telling me what this is about?"

Dr. Eppes glanced at him, and then back out the windshield, and Thorn thought to himself how young he looked; he wasn't what he'd expected when they'd told him he was a professor. Especially now - the professor appeared frightened, vulnerable, shaken to his core. The young man responded, his voice low and husky. "I really can't say right now – I need to discuss this with some – acquaintances - at the FBI. It is serious; trust me."

"Is there some reason you couldn't discuss it with your brother?"

Charlie shook his head faintly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "No."

Thorn glanced in the rearview mirror. "You may have to – I think he and Agent Cooperman are behind us."

He caught the pure fear in his passenger's eyes as Charlie stared at him and then peered in the passenger side mirror at the SUV behind them. He said nothing; however, just huddled in his seat, with his eyes fixed on the reflection, and Thorn frowned, speculatively.

It took them a little over twenty minutes to get downtown - much of the rush hour traffic had already cleared. As they approached the office building, Charlie suddenly directed Thorn to make a left, then a quick right, then had him enter a parking garage. Thorn did so, grabbing a ticket from the automated dispenser and pulling inside, before the SUV behind them could turn the corner. They watched through the rearview mirror as it rolled past the parking lot entrance, and then Charlie had Thorn proceed immediately to the exit, which let back out onto the street leading to the office building. Thorn did as he was told, paid the five-dollar minimum to exit the garage, and seconds later, pulled in front of the FBI office building, a quizzical look on his face. Light streamed out into the night from the lobby doors, and they could see a security guard at a desk inside. "I'll let you out here. Wait inside for me at the security desk – I'm just gonna park this at the curb, but I need to get the vehicle away from the entrance."

Charlie shook his head, opening the door, and slid out stiffly onto the pavement. "I'm going on upstairs – you'll find me up there."

"Dr. Eppes," Thorn began in protest, but Charlie was already gone, pushing through the doors and approaching a security guard inside at the desk. Thorn shook his head and pulled the vehicle forward into a spot along the curb. It wasn't any more legal than where he'd just been, but at least it wasn't in front of a fire hydrant. As he opened his door, he caught the lights of Don Eppes' SUV in his rearview mirror, about one block back.

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The CIA operative stationed inside, Mike Tate, spoke quietly with the phone to his ear from his spot in the side hallway, near the elevators. "Yes, I see him," he said, "he's coming in now."

Ziegler spoke on the other end. "Does it make sense to stage it right there in the lobby? How many witnesses are there?"

"I don't think so," said Tate. "An occasional person passes through, but other than that it's just me and the security guard – and it looks like there may be some of the NSA protection detail right on the doctor's heels. It would be easy for them to intervene."

"All right," said Ziegler. "Proceed as planned – get him upstairs and into the location we discussed. We'll direct his brother there. We're going to tell Don Eppes to take off his jacket once he gets up there – make sure you get your hands on it and take it with you. We can't have anyone finding the boosters and the camera. Hang on to it, though – we may need it yet. And stay available."

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Charlie barely slowed at the security desk; he recognized the security guard and gave him a nod, hoping the man wouldn't notice that he didn't have his badge. He knew that in spite of his quick dodge through the parking garage, Don would only be minutes behind him, and it was all he could do not to bolt for the elevators. He felt as though he were playing a game of 'monster' again – this time for keeps. He'd feel much better in the relative safety of the offices upstairs, surrounded by friends and team members. No matter how angry Don was with him, he wouldn't try anything up there.

"Dr. Eppes, wait a minute," said the guard, a man Charlie knew as Karl. "You don't have a badge."

"Yeah, I'm really in a hurry," Charlie said, reluctantly stopping at the edge of the desk. The guard's eyes were on his throat, and Charlie realized that he must have marks from Don's assault. He pulled his shirt collar higher around his neck, fidgeting with impatience. "I forgot it."

"I can't let you up without one," Karl said. "I'm sorry Doctor, but it's the rules. You can go up, but you'll need a visitor pass and an escort."

"I'll take him up," came a voice. Charlie glanced to his left, to see another security guard approaching.

Karl pushed a visitor badge across the desk. "Here you go, Doctor. I'll sign you in." He shot a quick glance at the other guard. "Haven't seen you before."

Mike Tate shot him a quick grin. "Mike Johnson. I usually work over at the courthouse." He turned as he spoke, following Charlie, who was already striding toward the elevators as quickly as he was able. Tate caught up to him as the elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside.

Karl watched them go, a frown on his face. No one had told him that an extra guard had been assigned tonight. He didn't have time to process the thought, however; he looked up as another man pushed through the door, and flashed an NSA badge. "Agent Thorn," he said. "I'm with Dr. Eppes."

"I'm sorry," said Karl, "but regardless of your agency, if you're not FBI, we need clearance from someone upstairs in order to let you up. Dr. Eppes already went up with a security guard. You also need a visitor's badge, and you need to sign in. Who are you here to see?"

"I'm here to see whoever Dr. Eppes is here to see," snapped Thorn. As he spoke, the doors opened behind him, and Agent Cooperman and Don Eppes came through.

Karl said, "Agent Eppes can probably take you up," and he attempted to wave them down. Cooperman altered course and jogged over to Thorn, but Don Eppes kept going, lengthening his stride to a sprint, headed toward the elevators.

Thorn and Cooperman exchanged dumbfounded looks, but Thorn relaxed a little. The professor was with a security guard, in a building full of FBI agents. There was no great hurry to follow him. "What in the hell's going on?" he asked Cooperman. "Did you get anything out of him?"

"Not a thing," said Cooperman. "I guess you didn't either? Maybe there's a hot case."

"Dr. Eppes seemed pretty agitated," replied Thorn. "You may be right – maybe it involves someone they know."

"What happened to Dr. Eppes' throat?" asked Karl, and they turned to look at him.

"His throat?" echoed Thorn. It had been dark in the yard and in his vehicle – he hadn't noticed anything unusual. "What about his throat?"

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The elevator doors opened, and Charlie shot out of them into the hallway, heading right for the bullpen, Tate trailing behind him. Charlie started toward Colby and David's desks, only to see them empty, and he stopped and looked around frantically. His sense of urgency was rising – he desperately wanted a chance to talk with the team members before Don got there. As he turned, he nearly bumped into Nikki, and he grabbed her arm. "Nikki – are Colby, David, or Megan here?"

Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and he dropped his arm. "Yeah," she said, "they're all here. We're workin' a case in the back conference room." He had come about to face her, and her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the bruises on his neck.

"I need to talk them, right now," Charlie blurted. "Is it just them in the room?"

She shook her head slowly, a frown of confusion on her face. "No, A.D. Wright's with us." Her eyes searched his face, taking in his obvious distress, and she flicked a glance at the security guard, who stood behind him.

Charlie thought quickly. The last person he wanted to hear his story was Don's A.D. "I really need to talk to one or all of three of them, confidentially," he said, "Without Wright."

Nikki hesitated; then nodded. "Okay, I'll go get them."

Charlie shot a glance over his shoulder, looking for a private place to talk. "I'll be in that conference room," he said, indicating the glass-walled room across the bullpen, and she gave him a nod as she headed toward the hallway.

Tate looked at him. "All right, sir – are you situated?"

Charlie was already heading toward the conference room. "Yes," he said, distractedly. "Thank you."

"No problem," responded Tate. He moved away toward the elevators, pulling out his phone, with a glance around the empty bullpen. "He's in place. It was easy – he headed in there on his own," he said, and shut the phone and stopped in front of the elevators, just as the doors opened and Don Eppes strode out. He already had his denim jacket off, and he shoved it at Tate, who took it and shot one more glance at the glass-walled conference room, then stepped onto the elevator. It wouldn't do for him to be there when it went down; a real security guard would be expected to break up the attack. He would slip back downstairs and into his suit, and would head back out into the night with the jacket, his mission complete. The target was at the assassination point.

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'_He's in the conference room_,' said the voice in Don's head, and he barely broke stride as he exited the elevator and turned for the bullpen. It was all he could do to control his rage. The voice drifted through his head, and fragments made their way through his fury-twisted consciousness. '…_you knew he couldn't be trusted…he's a double agent…he's been a liar all his life…time to show the world what a cancer he is…_'

As he strode into the bullpen, he saw Charlie's head come up through the glass of the conference room, saw the look of fear that crossed his face as he realized that Don was heading toward him. Don winced as his dream from the night before flashed through his mind – Charlie in the corner of the garage, begging for mercy, and for a moment, he faltered. A wave of pain shot through his head, bringing with it renewed fury, and he was moving again, moving toward the target, his eyes fixed on him. '_I hate you…I hate you…_'

He heard Colby's voice call out his name from the hallway behind him, but he ignored him, and with one quick stride, he reached the conference room, shut the door, and locked it behind him. He was boiling now, erupting inside in spite of the images of young Charlie in the garage trying to break through; and he pushed them down with bursts of fury, the agony in his head growing. Growling with frustration, rage, and pain, he reached down and pulled the knife from the sheath strapped to his leg. '_Kill him_,' said the voice, '_kill him now_.'

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"What's going on?" gasped Megan, as Colby broke into a trot in front of her, and David, beside her, followed suit. Ahead, she could see Don stride into the conference room and shut the door, and as she cleared the end of the hallway, she could see Charlie, standing, facing him. He had backed up against the wall farthest from Don, his hands half-raised as if to defend himself, pure terror on his face.

"Oh my God," breathed David, as he darted forward to close the distance between himself and Colby, and at the same moment, Megan saw it – the knife in Don's hand, and Don advancing toward Charlie, with a look of rage on his face that so twisted his features they were almost unrecognizable.

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"He's hesitating," snapped Ziegler. "Ramp it up."

"It's almost to the maximum safe level," said Korb, hunched over dials, his shoulders knotted with tension. "I'm putting it up to max."

The group leaned over the monitors in the control room. They had two vantage points – the camera mounted inside the conference room, and a camera out in the bullpen that showed a long angle of the conference room. That camera also revealed part of the bullpen itself, and Ziegler watched as Agent Granger darted into view, followed closely by Agent Sinclair and Megan Reeves. Granger headed directly toward the door and grabbed the doorknob, shaking it so hard the metal doorframe rattled, and then pounded on the bulletproof glass wall of the room, yelling Don's name. The agent named Nikki drifted into camera range, followed by A. D. Wright, stunned looks on their faces, as the knife flashed down.

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Charlie backed away, his hands up, his heart pounding so hard he could scarcely breathe, his eyes darting to the knife in Don's hand, and then back to his brother's face. The fear wasn't only for his own life – it was also for Don's. His brother had undeniably crossed some sort of edge, was having some kind of mental breakdown, and even if he were stopped at that moment, that thought alone was horrifying. "Please, Don," he heard himself saying in a shaking voice, taking another step backward as Don advanced. "Please – it'll be okay, we'll get you some help – just don't do this."

Don's face was truly terrifying, and he was issuing guttural growls that sounded as though they were generated by mingled rage and pain. "I hate you, you little son of a bitch," he rasped. "You lying little traitor." He jerked, his whole body in spasm, and he closed his eyes. Charlie had the sudden sense that some part of Don was fighting the insanity that gripped him, and he held his breath, hoping that when the eyes opened, it would be Don looking out at him. Instead, as Don's lids shot open again, the light of pure hatred was so intense, it almost made Charlie's knees buckle. The knife came down for the first time, and he raised a hand to ward it off, so immersed in terror he barely felt the bite of the blade on his arm. He stumbled backward as the knife arced down again.

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"OPEN THE DOOR!" screamed Megan, and Colby and David both drew back and rammed it with their powerful shoulders. The blow was enough to shake the whole frame of the conference room, and the resin-reinforced glass rattled, but the door didn't budge. The knife was flashing, coming down again and again, and Megan could see Charlie stagger against the wall, his arms still half-raised, blood streaming from his wounds. His back hit the wall, and he slid downward to a sitting position as his knees gave out, arms still upraised helplessly.

Colby, frustrated, grabbed a chair and swung it at the glass with a mighty heave, trying to shatter it. It bounced off so hard he lost his grip, and the chair tumbled away. Inside, Don raised the knife over Charlie's prone form, with a snarl of hatred.

"Everyone back up! Take cover!" yelled David, and he pulled his service revolver, aiming at the door handle.

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Ziegler's eyes flitted back and forth between the monitors, taking in the developing scene. "We have to finish this. They'll be inside in a second."

"He's not issuing a kill strike," said Wilkes tersely. "He's hitting non-critical areas of the body, and backing off as the blade contacts the target. He's still fighting it."

"Then ramp it up some more!" barked Ziegler. "We're almost there, and we won't get another shot at this!"

They could hear Jamison's voice over the speakers. "Kill him – finish it!"

"He's at the maximum safe range," protested Korb. "If I raise the current any more, he could stroke out, and he won't be able to continue."

"We're at the point where we have to take that chance," Ziegler growled. "Do it – now!"

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It took five shots to destroy the door lock. Megan watched as Colby and David barged through it, and at the same time, she saw Don go rigid and shudder, the knife raised over his head. Charlie was lying on the floor, his arms sagging, as if he'd lost the strength, or the will, to defend himself. Then Don seemed to re-focus, and he drove the knife down with a horrible cry, an animal sound, and a force that dwarfed his earlier blows. Charlie jerked as the blade entered his chest, and Don finally relinquished the knife, leaving it in place as he stood, swaying drunkenly. Megan just stood there, rooted in shock, as A.D. Wright pushed past her, and two other men also darted past and into the room, men she didn't recognize; and she saw them flash NSA badges at Wright. She was dimly aware of Nikki, who had come up beside her; the younger agent had lost her usual cocky street attitude, and was staring at the scene in shock. Don seemed to be finished with his attack, but Colby and David grabbed his arms.

The contact seemed to galvanize Don, and he started to struggle like a wild animal, screaming, shouting curses at Charlie, as they managed to cuff his hands behind his back. One of the other agents was coming forward, and he and David took Don's arms and dragged him out of the room. Megan stood like a stone, watching them pass as if from a distance, nauseated by the look of insane fury on Don's face; taking in the look of devastation on David's. She turned back, slowly, and saw Colby and Wright bending over Charlie in the conference room. Charlie's eyes were still open, but judging from the position of the knife in his chest, he didn't have long.

Suddenly, with a sickening jolt, she reacted. "911!" she screamed. "Someone call 911!" As she came to her senses, she fumbled for her own phone with shaking hands, and dialed.

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Ziegler, Wilkes, and Korb took a breath and sat back. "That's a kill strike," said Wilkes, and Ziegler nodded.

"Good work," he said. "Take him down."

Korb nodded. "I pulled him down into the safe zone as soon as he took that last strike," he said. "I can take it down more; put him in a calmer state."

Ziegler shot a look at Jamison, who was watching them from the soundproof booth, following their conversation through his headset. "You can take him down all the way," he said. "It's done." He looked at Wilkes. "I understand if we withdraw all stimuli and let him revert back to his natural state, he'll remember what happened."

Wilkes nodded. "Oh, he'll remember, all right. He's preprogrammed to remember most of what he did – even the voices in his head. We blocked out the memories of any instructions concerning the cameras, of the knife delivery, of most of the programming sessions, of the hardware in his jacket – anything that would tie to anyone other than himself. He'll be in a stuporous state for an hour or two as his brain adjusts to the lack of current, but when he comes out, he'll remember stabbing his brother - he just won't understand why he did it."

Ziegler grunted, with approval. "Good. We're done for now – we'll deal with Don Eppes later." He eyed the prone figure in the conference room. Charles Eppes' eyes were still open, but they wouldn't be for long. The knife was protruding from the region of his chest that contained his heart – death would come in moments. Still, they needed to be certain.

"I'll get a man at whatever hospital they take him to, and make sure the objective was completed," he said. "You gentlemen, however, are done. Nice work. Your country doesn't know it, but they are indebted to you."

"Thank you, sir," said Wilkes, as Ziegler gave them a curt nod, and left the room. He looked at Korb and at Jamison, who had removed his headset and was coming out of the booth. "I'm going to report out to Allman, then call Team C and tell them they don't need to come in," he said. "I'll see you later."

The door closed behind him, and Korb and Jamison both looked at the screen, silently. "You know," said Jamison, "this was a tough one. I don't know why – it just felt funny. Wrong."

Korb nodded gravely, his eyes still on the screen. "I know what you mean – I know they say this method is foolproof, but for a minute there, I really thought Don Eppes was going to beat it. He fought it hard – in spite of the fact that his brother was a traitor, he really loved him."

Jamison sighed, and ran a hand over his face. "I think I can only handle a couple more of these," he said. "Then I'm putting in for a transfer." He paused. "Want to get a beer?"

Korb glanced at his watch, and nodded. "Yeah. I've had enough for one night."

A team of paramedics with a gurney had appeared on the monitors. Korb flicked the cameras off, and then followed Jamison out of the control room. The monitor screens stared back like blank dead eyes, into the silent room.

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End, Chapter 26


	27. Chapter 27

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 27**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews . Just some reference points – I finished this story last week. In case you were curious – it is 68 chapters, which means lots more heartbreak, angst, multiple whumps, brother moments, and action ahead. The chapters you are reading right now were actually written last fall, and I've had that glass conference room scene in my head for months before that. At this point, I should offer another heartfelt thank you to FraidyCat, who has kindly beta'd the entire thing, and thanks again to all of you – I really love writing for you…_

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Colby watched anxiously as the paramedics loaded the gurney into the ambulance, and then turned to the group behind him – agents Cooperman and Thorn, A.D. Wright, and Megan. LAPD officers had arrived, and David had gone with them to escort Don to LAPD headquarters. "I'll ride with Charlie, if it's okay with you," said Colby, looking at Thorn. "He should have someone he knows with him right now."

Thorn nodded, his face still registering the vestiges of shock and dismay. "Cooperman and I will meet you there," he said. "Bill Masters and Brian Rogan are on their way."

Wright looked at him; his face grim. "I'll meet you there, too. I want an accounting of this from you before I call in to report to the Director."

Thorn and Cooperman nodded miserably, and the group watched as Colby climbed in the rear of the ambulance behind the medics, and the doors swung shut. There was a short blast of a siren, and the ambulance pulled off into the night, its lights flashing.

Inside, Colby leaned over Charlie. Charlie was covered with blood; the knife handle was still protruding from his chest, at least what Colby could see of it - the medics had packed layers of bandages around it. He was still conscious; Colby could not imagine how, but he wanted him to stay that way, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. If Charlie went, they would not only lose him – they would lose Don, too. Colby knew that if Charlie died, Don could end up on death row, or at the very least, in a facility for the criminally insane. "Hey, Charlie," he breathed softly, firmly grasping the young man's hand. It felt cold, and already lifeless.

Charlie's face was twisted in agony, and he looked up at Colby, fear, pain, and deep despair written in his expression, along with an unspoken question. Tears glittered in his eyes, and two escaped, streaking down the sides of his face. Colby, heartsick, watched them go, and for the first time noticed the marks on Charlie's neck. They were unmistakable – bruises from fingers; he'd seen them before. Were they from Don, too? The medic next to Charlie gently lifted his head, and slipped on an oxygen mask. Charlie's breaths were short, painful, there was not enough air for speech, but Colby could read the question on his face as clearly as if he had spoken it. _Why?_

"I don't know, Charlie," Colby said sadly, answering the silent query. He looked into Charlie's eyes intently, almost fiercely. "But you have to hang on, man, do you understand me? For you – and for Don. Something's wrong with him – he's not right – but maybe they can help him. You need to make sure you hang in there, okay?"

Even as he spoke, Charlie's eyelids were drifting shut, and Colby tightened his grip on Charlie's hand. The horrible reality was sinking in – this was not just another victim – this was _Charlie_. He blurted out a plea, panic in his voice. "Charlie, please! Stay with me!"

With an effort, Charlie opened his eyes, but in spite of Colby's repeated entreaties, they kept drifting shut. His body hurt, his heart ached with anguish like none he'd ever known before; the despair was so absolute that he no longer had the will to live. He was tired, so tired…

They were nearly to the hospital when Charlie's eyes closed, and didn't open again.

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Bill Masters and Brian Rogan waited outside the operating room, Masters pacing impatiently. A chastised Thorn and Cooperman stood guard at the doors, their faces grim and miserable after the tongue-lashing they'd received from Masters.

Rogan eyed Masters as he passed. "You were a little hard on them. No one could have predicted this."

"They should never have let Dr. Eppes leave the house," snapped Masters. "They knew something was up – they should have called it in, right away."

"It probably wouldn't have made a difference," said Rogan. "If Don Eppes was going to kill him, he could have done it at the house just as easily."

Masters paused, and dragged a hand over his face. "Where is that doctor? He told us he'd have an update for us by now. We're due to report in." He had no sooner spoken than the doors to the operating room opened, and the doctor in question pushed through them. Masters strode forward and put a hand on the man's arm, hurriedly guiding him toward a small office. "In here."

The surgeon gave him a look, but allowed himself to be ushered into the room. Rogan followed them in, and shut the door. Masters swung around and faced the doctor, impatiently.

"I would never have believed it, but I think he's going to make it," said the doctor, and both agents let out silent breaths. "Whoever stabbed him didn't know what he was doing, obviously. Ordinarily, someone with experience would angle the knife upward in that region of the chest, to be sure of hitting the heart. The main strike went straight in, and in fact angled slightly downward. In addition, the blade was turned vertically, so it minimized the damage. Still, the patient was extremely lucky. The blade actually grazed the pericardium, and ended up sliding between the lung and the heart, but with no real damage to either. The other knife wounds were relatively superficial, although this didn't appear to be the first assault – he had bruising and two broken ribs, which looked as though he'd received them earlier. The main risk to the patient now is blood loss, which was significant, but we're continuing to stitch up the wounds, and will continue transfusions. Unless he crashes from the shock, I'm predicting a full recovery."

"Good," breathed Masters. "That's good." He paused for a moment, thinking; then looked the doctor in the eye. "We've already impressed on you that this man is a government witness in a very sensitive case. I want you to do something for me. For his protection, I need people – and by that I mean everyone but us, and as few of your staff as possible - to believe he died on the table. We'll transfer him somewhere else for recovery. Can you arrange that?"

The surgeon looked at him doubtfully. "It's possible, but I would need to include a few of my staff to make it believable, and we need to run it by the administrator. I can shoo out the interns and some of the others in the room, but I can't call a death without at least one other person there – it wouldn't be protocol – or be believable to those who weren't there. And we'd need to clue in someone in the morgue, and whoever will attend him post op."

"See if you can arrange it. Maybe they can send up a John Doe from the morgue – you can put a sheet over him and tag him as Dr. Eppes, make a show of taking him back down to the morgue. It's important that you don't let anyone else know, including the guards outside the door, the feds, anybody, unless you get permission from myself or Agent Rogan, here. Is that clear?"

The surgeon looked at him as if he were not quite right, but nodded. "In that case, I need to get moving – I need to start the requests and get back in there."

Masters' eyes bored into his. "Do not take this lightly. This is a matter of national security. You can go." The skeptical look on the surgeon's face faded, and he swallowed and gave a brief nod. As he departed, Masters punched a speed dial number into his cell phone, and glanced at Rogan. "What do you think?"

"Good," grunted Rogan, as CIA Director Conaghan's voice came on the line.

"Masters? I've got FBI Director Maxwell here with me. What's the status?"

"Rogan's here with me," replied Bill Masters. "We just got a report from the doctor. He says the professor's gonna make it. It sounds like he's one lucky son of a bitch – the knife passed between his heart and his lung, but didn't damage either of them. He lost a lot of blood, but the doctor thinks it's under control. Rogan and I told him we wanted him to stage something for us – to make it look like Eppes died on the table, for his own protection. We'll move him somewhere else to recover."

"Good thinking," came Conaghan's voice. "Dave Maxwell and I agree; something about this stinks, and we're going to look into it from our end."

"I can bring in the proper people in my organization out of the LA office," said Maxwell. "I'll limit it, of course."

"With all due respect, sir," said Rogan, "I don't think we should let any one else in on this, including your people, until we get a chance to find out what happened."

"I can't believe that they had anything to do with it," snapped Maxwell.

"And you wouldn't have believed Don Eppes would try to kill his own brother, either," retorted Conaghan. "Rogan is right. We need to limit this to need-to-know personnel, only, until we find out what is going on."

There was silence for a moment; then Maxwell's disgruntled but resigned voice came over the line. "All right. Temporarily, I'll agree with that. But as soon as they're cleared, I want them clued in."

"Good," said Conaghan. "All right gentlemen – we'll let you go – you have work to do. Keep us informed. You can reach us at any time, but at the least we expect an update at six a.m. our time. You can call this number again."

"Right, thank you, sir," said Masters. He flipped the phone shut and looked at Rogan. "Okay, as soon as the doctor gives the go-ahead, we'll get this charade on the road. Where are the feds?"

"They're waiting downstairs, in the ER waiting room," said Rogan. "As soon as the doctor calls the death, I'll tell them."

"We'll need to figure out how to handle family notification. We need to delay somehow, maybe stage a fake cremation. Eppes' father is still in Alaska. We could work that to our advantage."

Rogan looked doubtful. "Yeah – although we could ask Conaghan to let him in on it."

Masters shook his head. "No – we've got our marching orders. For Dr. Eppes' safety, we need to keep everyone in the dark, until he gets a chance to testify. It'll only be a couple of weeks – maybe a little longer depending on how long it takes the doctor to recuperate."

Rogan ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. We're gonna put his dad through hell."

"_We're_ not," retorted Masters. "Don Eppes already took care of that."

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Megan looked up as a figure stepped into the room, and put a hand on Colby's arm as she recognized Agent Rogan heading towards them. A.D. Wright and Nikki had seen him too, and the group rose to their feet as Brian Rogan stopped in front of them.

"I'm sorry," said Rogan, simply and without preamble. "Dr. Eppes passed away a few moments ago, on the operating table." His face a mask of respect, he watched for reactions, taking in disbelief on each of the faces, and despair on the faces of Granger and Reeves, who knew the professor best. He could discern nothing other than genuine emotion – if any of this group was involved in what had happened at the office, they were masters of deception.

"Oh my God," whispered Megan, and she sank back into a chair with a shaking hand to her face. Nikki looked at her uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot, and then reached out and patted Megan's shoulder awkwardly. She didn't know Charlie that well yet, and she was admittedly lousy at empathizing, but the grief on Granger's and Reeves' faces, even on A.D. Wright's, couldn't help but hit home, even to her street-toughened psyche. What disturbed her more was the fact that her SAC had carried out the attack – in her short time there, she'd already grown to respect him.

Wright cleared his throat, his voice husky with emotion. "The agents tell me that Charlie's father is in Alaska. His girlfriend is in Europe. I'll try to locate them – let them know."

"No, that won't be necessary – we'll handle it," said Rogan smoothly. "We already have people on it. In fact, we would ask you not to let anyone know, including acquaintances. If there is anyone that needs to be notified, please tell us, and we'll do it. We are still dealing with a highly sensitive issue, and we need to control who knows what. I'll let you notify the prosecutor and LAPD – this will have a bearing on the charges against Don Eppes." He looked around at the group with genuine sympathy. "My condolences to all of you," he said, and walked away, leaving them silent and motionless.

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Lieutenant Gary Walker burst through the doorway into the hall outside the interrogation room at LAPD headquarters and stopped short at the observation window, next to David Sinclair. Through the window, he could see Don Eppes hunched in a chair, staring at a table in front of him, his shirt bloodstained, and across from him sat two LAPD detectives. Walker appeared to be fighting down anger as he looked at David. "Did you hear anything from the hospital yet?"

"No – nothing other than that Charlie's in surgery. I called you as soon as they took Don in," said David. His voice was quiet, almost hushed, as if all the fight had been knocked out of him. "I told them he should just be held until the FBI had a chance to organize an internal investigation, but they wouldn't listen. They've been questioning him, but he won't talk – he seems to be in shock."

Walker's face was a mixture of outrage and disbelief. He didn't respond, instead, he pushed through the door into the room and faced the detectives, furiously. "What in the hell's going on here?"

They both looked up, surprise on their faces. Don sat silently, still staring at the table, as if no one else was in the room. "We read him his Miranda rights," said one, defensively.

"Screw that. The man is in shock," snapped Walker. "You have no business questioning him right now – he obviously isn't even capable of calling for an attorney. Now get your asses out of here, before I kick them out!"

The men exchanged a dumbfounded glance, but moved – quickly - scooting past Walker, who held the door for David and beckoned him to enter. "Did he say anything at all?" he asked him quietly, as David slipped past the retreating detectives. David shook his head, but didn't reply – his eyes were on Don, who was suddenly beginning to stir.

Don groaned and put a hand to his face, then pulled it away and stared at the dried blood on it, as if trying to comprehend how it had gotten there. He sat up abruptly and looked down at his bloodstained shirt, grasping it and pulling it away from his body, as if it was contaminated, and then looked up at David and Lieutenant Walker, staggering to his feet. "David -," he managed; then paused. His face was a study in confusion and fear. "What happened? I'm dreaming, right? I'm…"

He looked back down at his hands and shirt again, his chest heaving, and David exchanged a troubled look with Walker, and then moved over to him. "Sit down, Don," he murmured, and put a gentle hand on Don's arm to guide him to his seat, but Don resisted, and remained standing, looking into David's eyes, with growing terror on his face.

He grasped David's arms, and Walker moved toward them, eyeing Don warily. "What happened?" demanded Don, his voice rising.

David could feel Don's fingers digging into his arms like steel probes, but he remained motionless, maintained eye contact. "What do you remember?"

Don stared at him, gaping, as if still trying to comprehend the situation. "I – I must have blacked out, or something. I was having a dream -," he broke off, swallowed. "I dreamed that I attacked Charlie, but that's crazy - ," His voice trailed away as he looked at David's face, and the desperation returned to his voice. "I was dreaming, right? Or hallucinating – or – or something."

David glanced again at Walker; his face infused with pain, then looked back at Don and shook his head. "You didn't dream it, Don."

Don stared at him, stricken, beginning to tremble as comprehension dawned. "Oh, God – oh God," he whispered, and then sat suddenly, his legs failing him. "Oh, God." He grabbed one of David's arms again, desperation in his face, his voice rising. "Where is he? Is he okay?"

"They took him to the hospital," said David. He looked at Don miserably. "Don – why? Can you tell us why? What happened?"

Don's gaze had shifted to the floor, and he stared at it dazedly, still clutching David's arm. Tears were forming in his eyes, and when he looked up at David, the agent could feel the impact of the despair and confusion on his face. "I don't know," Don whispered, and then abruptly released David's arm and ran a shaking hand over his face. "There were these voices – in my head…," He slumped forward suddenly and buried his face in his hands, shaking, and a moan broke from his throat. "God, _no._ Charlie…"

David's cell phone vibrated, and he looked at Walker as he pulled it out. He glanced at the number. "I need to take this," he said quietly, and Walker gave him a somber nod as David stepped out into the hallway.

He flipped the phone open and put it to his ear. "Yeah, Colby." Then he was silent, just breathing, his chest rising and falling with suppressed emotion. "Okay," he finally said, with a leaden voice, and flipped the phone shut. He put a hand over stinging eyes, and just stood there for a moment, overcome, then he dropped his hand and turned back into the interrogation room, his shoulders slumped.

Don looked up as he came in, his eyes searching David's face, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. Walker shot David a sharp look, as the agent stopped in front of Don and put a hand on his arm.

"I need to see him," Don choked, finally finding his voice, his chest heaving with emotion. "I need to tell him-"

"Don," David said, and his voice cracked. He tightened his grip on Don's arm, and tried again, deep misery in his eyes. "Don – I'm sorry – he didn't make it. Charlie's dead."

Don stared at him, his mouth open slightly, and he shook his head, as if denial would make David's statement untrue. "No," he rasped, his voice hoarse and shaking, and David could hear the heartbreak in it. Don trailed off, his eyes moving blankly toward the floor, and without warning toppled forward, and pitched into David's arms.

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End Chapter 27

_A/N: Our poor boys – man, I am so mean. Don's facing some serious psychological whumping - H/C ahead. And yes, Don fans, more physical whumping ahead too. I'm not done with Charlie yet, either... _


	28. Chapter 28

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 28**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews…_

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CIA operative Mike Tate slipped into a set of green scrubs in the locker room, and pushed out through the door into the hospital corridor as if he belonged there. He had already reconnoitered; he knew that Charles Eppes was in surgery on the third floor, but he needed the greens to give him more access to the floor, to places where records were kept. He'd just gotten to his apartment after completing his stint as a fake security guard at the FBI building when the call had come from Louisiana, directing him to go to the hospital to be sure that Charles Eppes was dead. Twenty minutes later, he was there, wandering the halls.

Even though he was disguised by the scrubs, the guards outside the door of the operating room made him nervous – they were too watchful. He finally decided the best place to wait for information was in or near the ER waiting area, where the FBI agents were waiting. He had to be careful – the woman agent with the curly hair had seen him come up to the bullpen with Dr. Eppes, and he couldn't have her recognize him. Fortunately, he had been blessed with bland, nondescript features – so average as to be invisible. He grabbed a clipboard and parked himself in a corner just out of her line of sight, and was there when Brian Rogan came down and told the agents that Charles Eppes had died on the operating table.

Tate had immediately left the area and had gone up to the surgical floor, in time to see a sheet-covered figure being wheeled out on a gurney from the ER bay where they'd been working on Charlie Eppes. He followed the orderly at a discreet distance as he wheeled the gurney down to the morgue, and as he walked past them he heard him tell the morgue attendant, "Stabbing victim, last name Eppes. Here's his file." Then Tate had gone to a quiet spot on the first floor, and reported in.

He'd completed the call, and per direction, stayed, awaiting any further instructions. He whiled away a half hour in the staff lounge, and then, bored, wandered back to the ER floor, and peeked in the waiting room. To his surprise, the FBI agents were still there – and they'd been joined by two other men. One, an African American, looked like an agent, and Tate, with his years of operating in the L.A area, recognized the other – he was Lieutenant Walker, from LAPD. Something was going on, and he drifted past the central station in the ER area to look for information, glancing at charts, listening, trying to figure out what had happened.

As he stood there, an intern pushed out of an exam room, and met a doctor in the hallway, just a few yards from Tate. "They say he just passed out," the intern said, as he and the doctor turned to go into the exam room. "He was in custody – you know the stabbing victim who was brought in earlier - well, this is the guy who stabbed him. They say he just wigged out…"

The rest of the conversation was lost as the doors swung shut behind them. They could only be talking about Don Eppes. Tate stepped across the hallway and took a quick look through the small windows in the doors to be sure. He caught only a glimpse, but it was definitely Don Eppes, lying motionless, apparently unconscious. Tate checked his watch, and then he made his way down the hall again for another phone call.

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J. Scott Marsh landed in Pensacola and headed west immediately, with only a quick stop at the condominium he had rented in Perdido Key, to establish an alibi. It was a high-rise building with a check-in desk, and he flirted with the woman at the counter outrageously, to ensure that she remembered him. Perdido Key was a tiny coastal island three hours away from New Orleans, and he wanted to establish his presence in Florida – he needed to appear to be well away from New Orleans, where the murders would take place. He'd slipped out a side door immediately after bringing some of his luggage to his room, and had gotten on the road. He was over halfway there, two hours into the drive, when he got the call from Dr. Allman. "Yeah," he answered tersely.

Allman was brief and to the point. "The target has been taken care of. I just received a call from Los Angeles. Don Eppes carried out the assassination as planned, in the FBI offices. Dr. Eppes was alive when he left there, but died on the operating table at Cedars-Sinai, moments ago. There is a problem, however. I have been told by the operative on the scene that Don Eppes apparently passed out at LAPD headquarters, and was taken to the hospital. If they do an X-ray, they'll find the hardware in his head."

J. Scott Marsh swore to himself, thinking rapidly. He now was going to have to take Allman out along with Joe Bishop – he had no choice – and he was going to have to do it tonight. "Okay, look. You, of course, will deny knowledge of this, but I am going to have to work quickly to contain the situation. Eppes' mind control hardware is still operational, I take it?"

"Of course. The jacket with the signal boosters is still in the area – the CIA operative at the hospital has it in a safe place."

"Okay, give me the operative's name and contact number, and code." Marsh fished for a slip of paper, came up with a receipt, and jotted down the information. "Now, I believe there is a portable control center, which can be carried, correct?"

"Yes – that's what we use in overseas operations – you probably remember that from the Abdul Rahman assassination – you worked that one. We usually assign one man as the controller – he does the voice and electrical controls from a portable unit. It's not hard to learn to use the equipment, but it is fairly tricky for one man to control all the inputs. It's best to have someone experienced. I can assign someone -,"

"That won't be necessary." Marsh cut him off. "I'm in the area on another assignment. I'll need you to meet me tonight and show me how to use it. I'll take care of finding someone to manage it – the fewer people from your facility involved the better, in case they come looking for you. If anyone contacts you prior to your meeting with me, put them off. I am going to contact command of this mission, and we'll decide what your story should be if they find the wiring."

"All right. What time?"

"Figure about two hours. I'll give you a call when I get a better idea of the time. Joe Bishop is in the area – I'm going to include him in the meeting. I may even have him take this one."

Allman agreed, and Marsh disconnected the call, his eyes only half-seeing the dark expanse of I-10 in front of him. He thought for a moment, then punched in the number that Allman had given him for Mike Tate, the CIA operative at the hospital. A voice came on the line.

"Yes."

"Code Stork Hannah Five Zero Dog Niner."

"Yes – this is Tate. Stork Five Seven Seven."

"Is your line secure?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Tate, my name is Joe Bishop," lied Marsh. "I am the senior agent who commanded the operation directed by Dr. Allman. I understand the legwork for him was done by Agent Ziegler."

"Yes, sir. I've been receiving orders from Agent Ziegler."

"The operation was successful, but there is a complication, which you have reported – namely that Don Eppes is at the hospital. I need you to stay on top of that situation, and determine what kind of treatment they are giving him – most notably, head X-rays or scans. If they do them, he will undoubtedly be assigned to a doctor, probably a neurologist or neurosurgeon. Get a bug in that doctor's office as soon as you know who that is, and report back to me immediately on any developments."

"Yes, sir. Is that all?"

"Save this number on your cell phone. You will report directly to me on this matter – no one, not even the Director himself, will get this information – it is for his, and the Agency's protection. Plausible deniability. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is all." Marsh disconnected, his mind still churning furiously. There was a chance that the doctor would just perform an exam of Don Eppes, and not request an X-ray. If that was the case, it was possible that Eppes could be released from the hospital with no one the wiser. Marsh would then need to get him out of custody – to stage an escape, and for that, very likely, he would need control of Eppes – which was why he had asked Allman for the portable controller. Once Don Eppes was out of prison and in Marsh's hands, he would disappear – for good.

There was also a chance that the doctor would decide to do an MRI instead of an X-ray on Don Eppes. If that happened, Marsh wouldn't have to worry about eliminating the agent – the MRI would do it for him – the powerful magnets would rip the metal parts through his brain. Unfortunately, they would also certainly then discover that Eppes was wired. Again, Marsh would have no choice but to eliminate both Bishop and Allman, the only two men who knew of his involvement. He would ultimately pin the blame for the scheme on Joe Bishop, and by giving Mike Tate Bishop's name, he had taken a step toward that goal.

Now, it was time for the next step. He picked up his cell phone again, and punched in the number for Joe Bishop. "Joe. How was your flight? I'm en route. We have a meeting with our contact later this evening, in roughly two hours. I'll call within the hour with the location and time. You should have time to check into your hotel and get something to eat. Yeah – yeah, I've been there, the food's good. Okay – I'll check with you later."

He hung up, hoping Bishop enjoyed his meal. It was going to be his last one.

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Charlie's brow knitted in pain, and his eyes flickered open. Consciousness was returning slowly, and it took a few seconds for him to realize that he was in what appeared to be a hospital room. He was dimly aware of a nurse by his side, adjusting something near his bed. He felt heavy, weak, and his chest was burning – the pain increasing as he became more alert - throbbing, stabbing…

With an abrupt flood of recollection, he realized why he was there; he saw Don's face, twisted with rage, saw the knife descending with ugly, vivid clarity. Suddenly all of it – the shock, the fear, the despair, coalesced into one huge mass of anguish, and a stifled sob broke from his throat. He turned his head away from the nurse, trying to hide the tears that were spilling from his eyes, uncontrollably. The void, the sense of loss was even more painful than the physical wounds; he was overwhelmed with pain, mental and physical – wallowing in it, helplessly, drowning…

The nurse moved around the bed and patted his hand. "I know it hurts," she said, her face filled with sympathy. "Now that you're conscious, we can give you something for the pain – the doctor ordered it to be given as soon as you were awake. I just inserted it into your IV – you should be feeling it any second now."

Charlie only half-heard the words; an odd floating feeling was beginning to consume him, fogging his consciousness. It was true, the medication took away the physical pain, but even as he drifted off to sleep again, he knew that nothing would ever be able to soothe the ache in his heart. That, he could not escape; it would be waiting for him, when he woke.

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The nurse stepped out to report to the five men in the hallway. "He's conscious," she said. "Or he was – I gave him his pain medication, and he dropped off again."

"Good," said his doctor, and looked at the four agents as the nurse slipped back into the room. "I'm sorry, but we can't move him just yet. He really should still be in recovery, but we obviously couldn't keep him there, we had to get him out of sight. He's still getting transfusions. We need a few hours to be sure he's stable, then we can fly him out."

Masters scowled with annoyance; he didn't like the situation, but the whole point of this was keeping Dr. Eppes alive – he couldn't risk losing him because they'd moved him too soon. "All right," he growled, as his cell phone vibrated. He grabbed it and flipped it open, well aware that the hospital forbade cell phone use, well aware that the doctor was looking at him disapprovingly. "Yeah," he barked into the phone. The other men, Brian Rogan and Agents Thorn and Cooperman, stared at him, as a look of consternation crossed Masters' face. "What!" he exclaimed. "They brought him to _this_ hospital? Okay, okay – I'll be down."

He flipped the phone shut, and looked at the doctor. "All right, thank you," he said curtly, dismissively. "I'm putting a couple of men on this room in the meantime. If you can have someone get us a set of scrubs, I'd appreciate it."

The doctor, a bit tightlipped at being ordered around so presumptively, nodded and moved off, and Masters looked at the others and spoke quietly. "That was A.D Wright. Don Eppes passed out at LAPD headquarters, and they brought him here, of all places." He looked at Rogan. "You and I need to get down there and talk to his doctor – I want a chance to question him myself, as soon as he comes to." He shifted his gaze to Thorn and Cooperman. "I want one of you in the room, and the other outside. The man outside the room needs to put on a set of scrubs and to try to blend in with the staff. I don't want it to be obvious that we have a guard on this room. Don't screw up again."

Thorn and Cooperman nodded, with chastised expressions. Masters jerked his head at Rogan. "Let's go."

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The ER doctor, Ballister, looked up as Rogan and Masters pushed into the exam room, and opened his mouth to protest, but cut it short as they flipped out their badges. He'd already heard rumors about a fight between two brothers, and that one of them had been admitted earlier, and had died in the OR. Now he was attending the other brother, reportedly an FBI agent, who had been brought in unconscious, and was still out. He shut his mouth and looked at the men – and the one whose badge read 'Masters' said, "We would like to speak with you privately."

"One moment," said Ballister, as he held up a hand. He turned to his staff. "As I was saying, get that blood work processed, and I want some X-rays."

An intern, a skinny young man with a bad case of acne, said, "Wouldn't a CT scan or an MRI show us more?"

"Yes, but an X-ray may show you enough," replied Ballister. "It's faster and cheaper – don't put your patients through more expensive tests when you might be able to find out something with less. We'll start with X-rays, and go from there."

Two LAPD officers were standing by, and one of them said, "We need to stay with him at all times. If he wakes, he may be violent."

Ballister inclined his head. "Be my guest. Under the circumstances, we'll leave him here, and bring in a portable X-ray unit." He looked at Rogan and Masters. "Come with me."

They stepped out of the exam room and down the hall to small office, and once inside, Rogan spoke. "This man is part of a confidential case. When Don Eppes comes to, we'd like to question him, but we also need to be the first to know what you find when you examine him – do not give any reports to the police or FBI without talking to us. We're going to put a man with him, but if he wakes and starts talking before we can do that, we need to know. One of us needs to be there to hear what he has to say."

Ballister nodded. "Easy enough. What about the officers with him?"

"We'll take their places while we're waiting for our people to get here."

"All right," replied Ballister. "Before you do that, I'm going to head down to Radiology to view his results in a few minutes – you may want to come with me if you want a report."

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After speaking to Joe Bishop, Mike Tate returned to the ER, checking the hallway outside the exam room that held Don Eppes. As he looked down the hall, he saw Rogan and Masters approaching, and he immediately turned, trying to make his movements look casual, and headed the other way. He had spent too much time already outside the operating room where they'd tried in vain to save Charlie Eppes, and although he didn't think he'd been noticed, he wanted to keep it that way – especially since he'd actually spoken to Masters at the Craftsman, when he'd come to install the cameras. So it was that when the portable X-ray machine was rolled into the exam room, Tate had hidden himself around the corner where he stood pretending to look at a patient's chart, and missed it.

…………………………………………………………………

The ER doctor stuck his head out of the viewing room with an odd look on his face, and spoke to Rogan and Masters, who were pacing the hallway outside. "I think you guys should see this."

He ushered them into the room and shut the door behind them, indicating a series of films, which had been hung on an illuminated board. He waved a hand at them, and Rogan and Masters stared. Even to their untrained eyes, the wires and the device inside Don Eppes' head looked alien. They looked at each other, and they could see the realization and suspicion dawning in each other's face – this was far deeper than a simple attempt at murder.

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End Chapter 28


	29. Chapter 29

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 29**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all. Patty – a special thanks, since I never get the opportunity to reply to you personally._

…………………………………………………………

Rogan and Masters squinted at the pictures, frowning, taking in the thin lines, and something that looked like an irregular object on the left side of Don Eppes' skull, near his ear. "So what is all that?" asked Rogan.

"I'm not sure," admitted Ballister. "I've called our head of neurosurgery down as a consult. It could be a type of hearing aid called a cochlear implant, and the wiring is consistent with what is used to control Parkinson's tremors, but he's awfully young to need either of those. Plus, that surgery is usually reserved for advanced cases; I can't imagine he'd have been allowed to remain active as an FBI agent if he had advanced Parkinson's – or even significant hearing loss." He snorted softly and shook his head. "It's a damn good thing we didn't do an MRI."

There was a soft knock on the door, and man in a white coat entered and extended his hand. He was trim, clean cut, and appeared to be in his late forties, with sharp grey eyes. "Dr. Janovic, from Neurosurgery," he said. He looked at the ER doctor. "Dr. Ballister. How can I help you?"

Ballister stepped back and indicated the X-rays. "Take a look. What do you make of that?"

Janovic's eyes narrowed as he swiftly scanned the images, and a look of puzzlement crossed his face. Rogan was watching him. "What?"

"I honestly can't say I've ever seen this," he said. "It looks similar to wiring traces that I've put in for Parkinson's patients, but if you look at this -," he pointed to the leads, tracing them with a forefinger, "the leads aren't in the proper positions to control motor response. They're primarily in the prefrontal cortex, the decision-making portion of the brain, and areas that control emotional response, such as near the hypothalamus. This wasn't put in for Parkinson's, I can tell you that."

Rogan and Masters shot a glance at each other, and then Rogan said, "This man is an experienced FBI agent, who went on a rampage this evening and tried-,' he broke off and amended his statement, almost imperceptibly – "and killed his brother. Both of them recently returned from an undercover operation that has implications for national security – his brother was a key witness. I need you to tell me – is what we see here something that could have caused that behavior?"

Janovic looked at the scans. "I'm not aware of this technology, but from the placement in the brain, yes – it looks like it could have been put there to impact his emotional responses and thought processes." He peered closely at the image of the device near Don's ear. "And that is not your ordinary cochlear implant. In fact, it looks like it's something tied to the auditory nerve – it could possibly be used transmit information. Again, though, I haven't heard that technology of that type exists."

"Shit," breathed Masters. He looked at the two men. "I need to have your assurances that you will not reveal any of this to anyone, except to me and my counterpart here." He looked at Janovic. "We need to discuss this with our director in Washington. Can you sit in on the call?"

Janovic nodded, his normally confident manner subdued. "Certainly."

Rogan asked. "Could this have been the reason he passed out? Or is there something else here – an injury?"

Janovic surveyed the films again. "No – I don't see anything that indicates injury, or that he even needs treatment, at least from a neurological perspective. If, as you say, he killed his brother, possibly against his will from the looks of this, he may simply have been suffering from shock."

Masters looked at Ballister. "I need you to go back to the patient, and you will act and proceed as if his X-rays were normal. We don't want to let on that we've found this, do you understand?"

Ballister nodded. His eyes were still huge with disbelief, but he had a stubborn set to his jaw. "I can do that, but I'm not necessarily going to release him. He's still suffering from shock, at the very least."

"That's okay," said Masters. "In fact, that can be your official diagnosis – you found nothing wrong with him other than shock. Don't even put into his file that X-rays were done. Your staff and the LAPD officers in the room know that the X-rays were taken; you can simply tell them verbally that they were normal. As far as anyone else goes, this never happened, do you understand?"

Ballister shifted uncomfortably, and looked at Janovic. "We really should let our admin know about this."

"I'll take care of that," said Janovic. "You do your part, get him admitted, and you'll be done with this. I'll take it from here."

Ballister nodded, and took a deep breath. "Okay." He grinned, shakily. "This is some crazy stuff." As he met Masters' grim stare his smile faltered, and he cleared his throat. "Okay. I'm going now," he said, unnecessarily, and slipped out of the room.

Janovic looked at Masters, who was pulling out his cell phone. "You may have a hard time getting a consistent signal in this area of the hospital. Why don't we go to my office? By the way, with whom are we going to be speaking?"

"James Conaghan."

Janovic's eyes widened. "CIA Director Conaghan?"

Master's grinned, but the smile was more disturbing than reassuring. "None other."

Janovic stared at him; then managed to compose himself. "All right, gentlemen, follow me."

………………………………………………………

'_This is surreal_,' Janovic thought to himself, as they gathered around Master's cell phone in a small office on the second floor. There was another phone there, but Masters insisted on using his – its transmissions were scrambled, he said; they couldn't be picked up by surveillance devices. If Janovic hadn't seen the X-rays, he'd have thought that the agent had been driven to paranoia by one too many missions – was taking his job a little too seriously. Now, though, Janovic had to admit he was a just a bit freaked out himself, and he was wondering how to convince the agents to let his hospital administrator in on the events.

"Conaghan here. What is it?"

Rogan spoke toward the phone, which had been set on speaker. "Sir, we have a situation. The doctor treating Don Eppes did some X-rays, and found wiring and what appears to be some kind of transmitter in his brain. We have the head of neurosurgery at the hospital, Dr. Janovic, with us, to explain what they found."

"Frankly, I can't say what it is, exactly," said Janovic. "It appears to be a set of leads, or tiny probes that have been placed to provide electrical stimulus to the emotional and decision centers of the brain, along with some kind of transmitter. It looks as though it is intended to influence his emotional responses, even his thoughts, but I'm reluctant to say that's what it's for, because to my knowledge, that technology doesn't exist."

He paused, waiting for a response, and silence stretched out so long that Masters said, "Sir, are you still with us?"

Conaghan's voice came over the line, sounding heavy. "Yes, the technology exists, although very few people know about it. It's available one place in the world – at Cypress Institute, where Don Eppes was taken for treatment after a car accident."

"Cypress Institute," repeated Masters slowly, his brow knitting. "Don't they do work for us?"

"They're a medical research facility and think tank. They do projects for a number of organizations, including the CIA," responded Conaghan. "Something like this, however – they wouldn't have taken this on without someone with high enough credentials to sanction it."

"Wait a minute," said Janovic, looking from Masters to Rogan. "Do you mean to tell me that someone actually programmed this guy to kill his brother?"

"That's exactly what I suspect," came Conaghan's voice. "Dr. Janovic, I'm afraid you are in the unenviable position of knowing something you would probably rather not. We need to have your assurances that you speak of this to no one. Since you are already involved, we may also call upon you at some point to remove the devices you found from Don Eppes' head."

Janovic looked incredulous. "At some point? I would think you want that out immediately."

"Is it hurting him to leave it there?"

Janovic shook his head, with a puzzled look on his face. "No, but -,"

Conaghan interjected. "Go ahead and schedule him for surgery, but give us a few days. I need to do some digging. Plus, there's a chance that whoever programmed Eppes will try to contact him again. We'll put him under surveillance – maybe we can find out something that way. Doctor, if I can, I would like to speak to my agents privately."

"Yes, sir," said Janovic, "no problem. I'll just step out."

Masters waited until he was out of the room. "It's just us, sir."

"This changes things significantly," said Conaghan, and Masters could hear the deeply disturbed tone of his voice, even over the cell phone speaker. "I'm familiar with the work that Cypress had done for us in the past, although I was unaware of their involvement in this case. Someone high up, either in the CIA or in your organization, Masters – Covert Ops – had to sanction this – I'm sure Dr. Allman, the director of this type of mission, wouldn't have taken this on without a command from someone with the proper clearance.

"Maybe Allman was in on the scheme – maybe someone bought him out," suggested Rogan.

"Possibly," admitted Conaghan. "Or someone bought out the agent who gave him the command. This clears Don Eppes, although I don't want to let him in on this just yet. Part of the conditioning regimen he would have gone through would have included brainwashing. The wiring exists to enhance that. Even when the wiring is removed, there may be some reconditioning needed before we can trust him again. Until that is done, it's not safe to tell him anything – he may try to communicate back to the person who orchestrated this. It won't hurt anything to pretend we haven't found this, and put him in a holding cell for a few days while we try to find out who is behind it."

"Where does this put Maxwell's organization – the FBI? I am assuming this means that A.D. Wright and his agents can be considered cleared also," said Masters. "The reason I'm asking is, we could use some help trying to keep a lid on this. Wright mentioned to Rogan the names of some close acquaintances of Dr. Eppes' – namely his girlfriend, who is in Europe. We only have to keep that charade up for a couple of weeks, and it would be easier on her – and would create fewer questions for us – if she didn't know that any of this happened. There is also the doctor's father, and there may be more people who would expect to be notified of his death. Even though we asked the agents to allow us to manage the contacts, if they don't know what's going on, they may not realize the importance of not letting information slip if someone calls them. If you now think that they're clear on this, we may want to clue them in, and have them help us out."

"I can see your point," replied Conaghan. "All right – I'll talk to Dave Maxwell about who he thinks should be given clearance. We also need to track down who was in New Orleans at the time of the attempted hit on the Eppes brothers. Joe Bishop was their handler – he and Agent Edgerton were at Cypress the entire time Don Eppes was there. If I remember correctly, it was Joe Bishop who made the request to move Eppes to Cypress to be treated."

Rogan looked at Masters, doubtfully. "I'd find it hard to believe that Joe was involved."

"Me, too," admitted Conaghan. "That's why I'd like to talk to him personally. How are you planning to handle Doctor Eppes' father? Unfortunately, to perpetrate the myth of Dr. Eppes' death, we'll need to get hold of him and inform him of his son's death. If we didn't make an attempt, it would be very suspicious, but it creates an issue - he'll want to view and take custody of the body."

"I've been thinking about that. He's in Alaska right now," replied Masters. "The hospital has a policy that bodies must be claimed from the morgue within three days – or at least they must have notification that someone is coming to claim the body. If they receive no word, they make arrangements to process the body per the deceased's last wishes, if known, or if not, they arrange through the city for cremation. We're going to claim that we couldn't manage to reach Mr. Eppes before the three days was up. When he gets back, we'll present him with an urn of ashes – there will be no opportunity for him to claim a body."

There was silence for a moment; then Conaghan said, "It's a good plan. It's unfortunate that we have to put him through that, but for Doctor Eppes' safety, I don't see another way. It will only be for two or three weeks. When the doctor has recovered enough for home health care, I want you to put him at a new safe house location. It will be easier to keep him out of sight than stashing him at a hospital. I'll get you the particulars for the transfer."

"Yes, sir," replied Masters. "We should probably get back to Don Eppes now – if he wakes up and starts talking, we need to be there to control it."

"All right," said Conaghan. "I'm going to make some phone calls, starting with Dr. Allman."

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An hour later, Don Eppes lay in the hospital bed, eyes deadened by despair, trained blankly on the ceiling. He'd regained consciousness there – apparently he had come through the ER and been admitted, and when he woke, Rogan and Masters were there, with questions. Brian Rogan was still in the room with him, although Don didn't acknowledge him any more than he'd acknowledged Bill Masters and his questions about Don's recovery after the accident in New Orleans. He couldn't understand why they were so interested in that – couldn't understand why they'd be interested in anything other than the horrible deed he'd just committed. He'd flipped out, gone nuts. That thought – the voices in his head - the idea that he was obviously going insane, would have been terrifying, except he had no room for any emotion other than overwhelming grief. He kept picturing Charlie, his bleeding arms raised to defend himself, his eyes first filled with terror, then with a deep anguish as he finally dropped his hands – as if it didn't matter any more, as if he'd decided that life was no longer worth living.

The memory was crystal-clear, and was only broken by the occasional images - of Charlie when he was alive – as a young boy, with an impish grin and dancing dark curls. Or another - Charlie as his partner on a recent case, with the same engaging smile, as they caught each other's eye, seeing an identical flash of triumph as they realized they'd just solved a puzzle that put another perp off the streets. They'd been a good team, the best.

Charlie had always looked up to him, had wanted nothing other than to work by his side – and this was how Don had repaid him – by screaming obscenities, telling him he hated him, as he ended his life – not with a quick bullet, but with one agonizing cut after another. He could understand why Charlie had given up, there at the end.

It was exactly what he wanted to do, now.

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End Chapter 29


	30. Chapter 30

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 30**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. _

……………………………………………

Dr. George Allman peered through the windshield, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, as he maneuvered down the rutted, muddy road. It was pitch-black in this remote section of the bayou, and his Toyota Avalon Touring Sedan was ill equipped to handle the rough road, pitted with patches of muck that threatened to stop him in his tracks. His cell phone buzzed on his seat beside him, and he glanced briefly at the number – it was his office number, which he'd forwarded to his cell phone before he left. Well, it was going to have to wait, he thought; he needed every bit of concentration just to navigate the road. Damn spooks, he thought to himself. Why couldn't Bishop and Marsh meet him somewhere civilized?

With a sigh of relief, he spotted Marsh's Buick Lucerne rental pulled over by the side of the road; Marsh had told him what he was driving. Allman grabbed his cell phone from the seat and stepped out of the vehicle, then pulled the control vest from his trunk, before carefully picking his way through the tall grass by the side of the road. No telling what was hiding in that grass out in the bayou, in the darkness of night. He was halfway to the Buick before he heard Marsh's voice call to him from the edge of the trees. He narrowed his eyes, and barely made out the outline of a figure against a stand of pines. Why in the hell couldn't they sit in the car and talk?

With a sigh, he trudged through the grass, sinking one of his expensive loafers into slime on the way to Marsh's side. He stifled an oath as he stepped up next to the agent. "You guys take this cloak and dagger stuff a little too far. Where's Bishop?"

Marsh smiled and jerked his head toward the dark expanse of forest. "Taking a leak. You brought the apparatus?"

Allman glanced into the blackness under the trees with a shudder. "He sure must like his privacy. There's no way you'd catch me in there." He hefted what looked like an outdoorsman's vest, fitted with pockets. "This is it. Put it on; I'll show you how to use it."

Marsh slid the vest on, and Allman pulled open a tab on a large pocket on the left front. The pocket was actually a flap that swung out, revealing a small video screen. "This is your visual feed. It's tuned to the camera in the denim jacket that we gave Don Eppes. Of course, Agent Tate has the jacket right now, but when and if you break Eppes out, you can have Tate get it back to him. There's obviously not much to see right now – Tate must still have the jacket in his trunk, so the camera isn't picking up anything."

He turned a knob, and the scene switched from blackness to the muted lighting of a residential room. "That's the Eppes living room. All of the cameras we placed in the Eppes household, Don Eppes' apartment, and at the FBI offices are tied in here – just switch the knob to different settings to get them. I'm not sure if you'll need them, but it was an easy matter to program in the settings." He closed the flap, and opened a small one on the top right, pulling out a cord.

He handed it to Marsh. "This is the earpiece for your audio. It will pick up the audio feed from any of the cameras, including the one in Eppes' jacket, so you can hear what's going on around him, as well as see it. The metal button up near your neckline isn't a decoration – it's a mike. It sends a signal directly to the transmitter inside Eppes' head, near his ear. You speak into it, and he'll hear a voice inside his head. It's turned off right now."

He pulled open another large flap on the lower right front of the jacket, and another flap opened. Yet another screen came up, with two displays. "This is the control for the wires in his brain. It's a much simpler version of the master controls we have at Cypress, but it's effective enough. The controls and the display on the right are for his emotional centers – you can adjust the current to ramp up or play down his emotions. The controls on the left are for his thought and decision centers. Generally, when you want him to do something, you want to jam his decision centers and ramp up the negative emotions, while giving him verbal instructions to act. There's a small manual in the inside pocket that outlines the basic settings. When you give this control unit to your man, make sure he studies the manual. If at all possible, let him try out the controls on a small task first, before he has to control Eppes in any vital situation. If you want, you can meet with some of the staff – Wilkes or Ziegler know how to use this better than I do."

Marsh nodded. "Thanks, but I'm still under instructions to keep this covert. Do Wilkes or Ziegler know that your orders have been coming from me?"

Allman looked offended. "Of course not. That would violate procedure for plausible deniability. You made that clear – I haven't deviated from the original order."

Marsh grunted. "Good." He pulled off the vest and carefully set it on the ground behind him.

Allman shot an apprehensive look into the darkness under the trees. "Bishop sure is taking his time. What in the hell's he doing in there?"

Marsh smiled. "Same thing you're going to be doing."

Allman turned to look at him, puzzled, but had no time to respond. There was a loud report, then a split-second of searing pain in his chest, and he dropped with a sick-sounding thud, his exploded artery gushing blood through the bullet hole in his chest.

Marsh stepped back, carefully wiped the gun; and holding it by a handkerchief, moved over to the car and opened the trunk. Joe Bishop lay inside, already dead, wrapped in large plastic bags. One hand was extended, and Marsh carefully applied Bishop's fingertips and palm to the gun – it was Bishop's service revolver, registered to him. Marsh deposited the gun on the front seat, and then stepped back and retrieved the vest, stooping to check Allman's pulse. Dead. He could hear the buzz of a cell phone vibrating in Allman's pocket. Someone was apparently trying to reach the doctor, and Marsh wondered to himself if it was the CIA – had they already made the connection to Allman? It wouldn't matter now.

He drove back out of the swamp access road, leaving Allman and his car there. About three miles away, he tossed the gun and Bishop's cell phone in the tall grass next to a bridge over a small river – it would look as if they'd intended to be thrown into the water, and that Bishop had missed. With any luck, the CIA would put a GPS trace on Bishop's cell phone, and find both the phone and his gun. They would also undoubtedly find Allman's body the same way – through the GPS chip in his phone. When they did the ballistics, they'd match the bullet in Allman's chest to Bishop's weapon. Of course, Bishop himself would be nowhere to be found; he would have seemingly fled the country. In reality, however, his body would be submerged, deep in the Mississippi river.

The only two men, other than Jack and Pierre Montreaux, who knew that Marsh was involved were now gone. The Montreaux men wouldn't talk. Without the Eppes brothers' testimony, the government had no case against them – not for treason, not even with respect to the drug charges. Jack Montreaux would keep his mouth shut, and he and his cousin Pierre would walk. Of course, the two Iranians who had been apprehended would also remain silent, or face not only death from their own countrymen, but dishonor. The only loose end now was Don Eppes. If they found the wiring and he was cleared of his brother's murder and allowed to testify in the drug trial, he could become a threat – not to Marsh directly – but to the Montreaux men. If that happened, the Montreaux cousins might change their minds about talking about the Iran deal. So, for Marsh to be truly safe, Don Eppes needed to be eliminated. That, however, would be work for another day. He had time; he had access to the federal court schedules, and the Montreaux hearings were at least three weeks away.

A half hour later, Marsh successfully rid himself of Joe Bishop, sliding the agent's weighted body into the murky waters of the Mississippi outside of New Orleans. He then made arrangements for the vest – he placed it in a duffel, and stashed it in a downtown bus station locker, hiding the key in a potted plant near the terminal. He then got back on I-10 toward his rented condo in Perdido Key. At about two hours into the drive, around one a.m., he got a call from Mike Tate.

"Bishop here," said Marsh. "What's the report?"

Tate's voice sounded tinny over the line. "The good news is; they didn't do any X-rays on Eppes. I got a look at his chart – according to his file there were no films or scans of any kind. They diagnosed Eppes with shock, and are keeping him overnight as a precaution. The bad news is; they did assign him a neurological specialist – his name's Janovic. He may decide to take some X-rays before they release him."

"Is Eppes talking?"

"That, I couldn't tell you – he came to, apparently, but the two agents in charge have been with him ever since. They admitted him – he's in a room but one of them is with him at all times. I can't get close enough."

"Get a bug in Janovic's office."

"I just did that. He left for the night – I did it as soon as he was gone."

"All right. You're on duty until Eppes is out of that hospital. We'll need to make sure they don't take any scans before they release him back into custody. Call me if anything comes up."

He snapped the phone shut, and two hours later, he pulled into the parking lot of a small bar that straddled the Florida-Alabama line, just a few miles from his condominium. It was three a.m., but the place was still loaded with people, ranging from the local rednecks to the well-heeled vacationers who rented the Gulf-front condominiums. He hooked up with a young woman – sufficiently inebriated to not remember the time clearly – he'd plant an earlier time in her head before the night was over. She would be his alibi for the night – if he ever needed one.

Later, he left her sleeping in bed and stood on the balcony of his condominium, savoring a scotch, watching the early morning moonlight glint off the water of the Gulf. He still had it, he reflected. He'd been out of the field for years, but it was in his blood, instinctive. He smiled to himself, and raised his glass in a silent toast. He was invincible. Tomorrow, he would report in to Khalid, and open discussions for a new plan to get them their weapons technology.

Really, as he thought about it, with the deaths of Dr. Eppes, Allman, and Bishop, the pressure was now off. Even if they found the wiring in Don Eppes' head, anything suspicious would lead back to Joe Bishop. And if they hadn't found the wiring, to be safe, he could still eliminate Eppes, but in that case, he could afford to take his time. He glanced back at the young, nubile creature in his bed. A few days on the Gulf Coast wouldn't hurt a thing. He drained the last of his scotch, and headed back to bed.

* * *

The CIA courier in New Orleans got the call early in the morning from an agent who identified himself as Joe Bishop, and packed quickly, enough clothing for a week. As directed, he headed for the bus terminal, found the appropriate potted plant, and retrieved a key from the dirt. He then located the locker, took the duffel bag that he found inside, and carried it to his car. He didn't look inside – it was not part of the instructions. He'd done a courier drop before – it usually involved transporting something confidential enough that the agency didn't want to send it by commercial air, but not big or important enough that it warranted a private agency jet.

He grabbed a coffee and a couple of beignets, and hit the road. He was going to need the caffeine - it was a long drive to L.A.

* * *

Don sat on the edge of the bed, numbly listening to his discharge instructions, waiting for the nurse to leave so he could put on the orange jumpsuit that lay on the bed next to him. They had taken his bloodstained clothes, and he would travel to the MDC, the Metropolitan Detention Center, looking like the criminal that he was. He was beyond caring – they could lock him up for good for all he cared – they could, they _should_ send him to death row. He deserved it.

Finally, the nurse stopped talking. Moments later, Don was trudging down the hallway in the orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front of him, an LAPD officer's hand on his arm. Rogan and Masters, his companions during the night, had disappeared.

Moving like a zombie, he was ushered outside to a prison van, through a side door, so the good citizens in the lobby wouldn't have to see him, wouldn't have to lay eyes on such a low, disgusting example of humanity. Brother-killer, scum of the earth. He climbed into the van, sat, and closed his eyes, dimly aware of the sound of a helicopter over his head, of the early morning traffic noises around him. Sounds of ordinary life – something he'd had once. The van rolled away, and was keenly aware that he was leaving that life behind him forever.

* * *

Charlie stirred blearily, as he sensed movement around him. Quietly, quickly, two hospital orderlies were shifting his IVs from a stand to his bed, and disengaging the lock that held the wheeled bed in place. They began to push, and he felt a sense of momentary vertigo as the bed rolled forward. Agent Cooperman stepped forward into his line of vision. "Doctor Eppes, we're moving you to another hospital for your own safety. It's a short helicopter ride, just relax."

The instruction was unnecessary; Charlie was too weak, and too groggy from grief and medication to want to move, even if he could. Instead, he lay there as the hallway swept past him, feeling as if he was traveling down a tunnel, leaving his old life behind him. It had been so safe and warm and simple – Don had been right, he never should have taken the undercover assignment. Things had gone so horribly wrong, and although he couldn't know for sure what had triggered his brother's insane attack, he couldn't shake the suspicion that it had been a result of Don's head injury during the accident – an accident that never would have happened if only he'd listened, and stayed in L.A.

Deep inside, however, Charlie feared that the accident had nothing to do with Don's attack. If the head injury had been causing Don to behave irrationally, he would have been acting that way toward everyone. The cold fact was that Don had been behaving normally around everyone except Charlie. He had to face the shocking truth that the brother he loved apparently hated him so much that he would throw everything away – his career, his freedom, possibly his own life - just to be rid of him. The dark thoughts traveled with Charlie as he was whisked down the hallway. It made no difference to him where they moved him - no matter where he went, he was doomed to their company, to his own internal hell.

As the helicopter lifted into the morning sunlight, he lay on his gurney like a dead man, oblivious to the prison van far below, making its way out into the L.A. traffic.

* * *

End Chapter 30

_A/N: Next up – the team gets a briefing, and Alan makes his appearance…_


	31. Chapter 31

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 31**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, and the continuing alerts..._

……………………………………………

Rogan and Masters had spent the night in shifts, each of them sleeping for a couple of hours while the other kept a vigil with Don Eppes. After determining that Don was stable, the doctor had ordered a sedative for him, and the agent had finally succumbed to exhaustion, and dropped off to sleep. He'd seemed devastated by what had happened, and as Rogan studied his sleeping face, he found himself feeling sorry for the man. Dangerous feelings, he knew – they had no idea of how far gone Eppes was, how much brainwashing had to be reversed before they could trust him again. It appeared to Rogan, however, that perhaps the reversal would come easily, based on the agent's reaction. As he sat there in the silence, the thought came to him that if they could trust Eppes; perhaps they could even use him to get to the people who had planned the assassination.

The doctor released Don Eppes early the next morning. As ordered, Masters had arranged for him to be sent back to a holding cell – they placed him in a secluded cell at the Metropolitan Detention Center – secluded for his own safety. No one considered it a good idea to put a federal agent with other prisoners. The official story was that he was awaiting a hearing, but Director Conaghan had ordered an operative assigned to the cellblock cameras in order watch the prisoner. They were now aware that by virtue of the device in his head, Don Eppes could be contacted at any time, and no one would be the wiser. The operatives were instructed to watch him closely, and to look for signs that someone might be speaking to him via the device. As Don was being moved, so was Charlie – he had been flown without incident to another area hospital and admitted under a false name.

Conaghan had also agreed with FBI Director Maxwell on who within the Los Angeles FBI should be informed on the latest developments, so as soon as Don Eppes had been safely established in a holding cell, a weary Rogan and Masters showed up at the FBI offices. A.D. Wright himself met them as they stepped off the elevator, and escorted them to a private conference room down the hall. As they walked, neither Masters nor Rogan could resist a glance at the glass-walled conference room, which apparently had already been cleaned and re-carpeted. A maintenance man squatted by the door, replacing the doorknob.

Wright noticed his glance. "Conaghan didn't waste any time – he had people in here last night, cleaning out the room before my people started showing up this morning. No one knows what happened here last night except those of us who were here."

They stepped inside the conference room to find agents Granger and Sinclair, Megan Reeves, and Nikki Bentancourt – all of them looking exhausted and grim. Wright indicated a vent in the wall above their heads with a jerk of his head. "We found a camera in there this morning," he said. "We're clean for sure in this room now, but they're still looking – they've found others – one in the bull pen, and one in the conference room where the murder took place. Maybe you can tell us how they got there."

Masters saw the agents flinch visibly at the word 'murder,' and he replied. "Alleged murder."

He saw the looks of puzzlement wash over the agents' tired faces, but he didn't elaborate immediately. Instead, he and Rogan took their seats, and Masters leaned forward to address them as Wright sat also, next to his agents. "We've gotten clearance from Washington to include this group, and this group only, in what is an extremely sensitive briefing. We've decided that we can't pull this off without your cooperation."

"Pull what off?" demanded Colby, who was slowly sitting forward as Masters spoke. "What in the hell's going on here?" He felt David's soft nudge under the table, but he didn't care. He'd just spent a night of pure hell, and he was sick at heart. If the damn spooks were playing games…

"First of all," Masters proceeded as if Colby hadn't spoken. "Charles Eppes is not dead. We propagated that myth for his safety." He paused a moment to let that sink in, and watched as the agents stared at him. Megan Reeves' face twisted with emotion, and she put a hand to her forehead to try to cover her reaction. The others sighed audibly with relief and surprise, and Granger slumped back in his chair. All of them were visibly overcome by the news, and Rogan and Masters exchanged a glance. If they had any doubts, the reaction squelched them; it seemed apparent that this group could be trusted.

"His injuries are serious, and his escape was miraculous. The doctors tell us that the knife passed between his heart and his lung, doing little more than grazing either one of them. He has some broken ribs – we believe from a previous assault, and he lost a good deal of blood, which they are still in the process of replacing. He will, however, recover, and early this morning, we moved him to another hospital for his own safety. He'll spend a day or two there, and then be moved to a safe house, where he will continue his recuperation."

David was frowning. "Previous assault?"

"Dr. Eppes had broken ribs and bruises on his torso that the doctors believed were inflicted at least one day prior to the attack. He also had fresh bruises on his neck. When we questioned him this morning, he confirmed that Don had caused them." Masters watched as the agents' faces darkened again.

He cleared his throat. "The reason we are telling you about Dr. Eppes, is that we need your assistance in keeping our cover story intact. He was due to testify at treason proceedings in two weeks. We are still going to try to hold to that schedule if he has healed sufficiently. In the interim, for his safety and to promote the interests of the case, we need people – and by that I mean everyone, including his father – to believe that he is dead." He pushed on, ignoring the look of consternation that came across their faces. "Reeves, Granger, Sinclair – the three of you are closest to them and their friends – much closer than we are, and it's conceivable that you may get a phone call from one of them. We need you to help us keep a lid on this."

"How can you not tell Alan?" Megan Reeves demanded, her eyes flashing. "What possible reason could there be to keep it from him?"

Masters hesitated, and glanced at Rogan, who lifted a shoulder almost imperceptibly, and then Masters spoke again. "Director Conaghan requested that I tell you as little as possible, but I don't see a way around this. You need to know that we suspect that Don's attack was not the result of a mental break – that his attempt at murder was part of a plot to assassinate his brother."

Wright snorted; a sound of derision and anger. "You expect us to believe that?"

Masters' eyes narrowed. "I don't give a shit whether you believe it or not – we have proof. And I didn't say it was intentional on his part."

That statement stopped them all, and they sat staring, with open mouths. Masters took advantage of the silence. "The cameras you found are indicative of that – the attack was planned. What we told you is true, while Don and Charlie were undercover, they were in an accident, and Don suffered a concussion. What we didn't know was that while he was recovering, he was subjected to brainwashing – a very advanced technique that included placing wiring in his brain to control his mental and emotional responses. He was under the control of others during the attack, and truly was not responsible for his actions. Until he is deprogrammed, we still aren't sure he can be trusted, however, and we can't afford for Alan Eppes to slip and reveal that Charlie is alive, so we can't tell him anything. Please, just cooperate – it's only for a few weeks. As soon as we think it's safe, we can reunite Dr. Eppes with his friends and family. Do I have your word?"

There was silence as the agents processed the shocking news, but finally they exchanged glances. "You have our word," said Wright, firmly, and the others nodded and murmured their agreement.

Rogan spoke up. "Good. You need to think about whom their closest friends and family members are – the ones who might expect to be notified if Dr. Eppes were dead."

There was another silence, another exchanged glance. "Well, other than Alan," said Megan slowly, "there's Amita Ramanujan, and Larry Fleinhart. They're both professors with Charlie at Cal Sci. Amita is Charlie's girlfriend, and Larry is his closest friend."

Rogan frowned. "Last evening you said his girlfriend was in Europe. What about Fleinhardt? He wasn't at the hospital."

Megan shook her head. "He's there too - they're both in Europe on a research project and are supposed to be there for another two weeks. I wanted to call them, but last night at the hospital you told us to let you handle all of the communications." She flushed a little. "Larry and I are – good friends. It would seem very odd if I didn't tell him about this."

Rogan considered for a moment. "Do they know you're here in L.A?"

She shook her head. "I was supposed to be on vacation on the East Coast. My plans fell through, and I came here instead. Things have been happening so fast, I didn't get a chance to tell Larry I was here."

Rogan pursed his lips. "So it would be easy for you to pretend that you didn't know that it happened, either – the story could be that you were out on the East Coast and hadn't heard."

She looked uncomfortable. "Yes, I suppose I could."

Rogan looked at Colby and David. "Do you know how to get hold of the professors?"

David shook his head. "Not directly, but it would be easy to find out. I'd just call Mildred Finch, the head of their department at Cal Sci. I'm sure she would have a way to contact them. In fact, I'm sure we have their cell numbers here somewhere, now that I think about it. And of course, Megan has Larry's."

Rogan looked at Masters. "Being in Europe, they won't know what happened. Although they might wonder what was up when they couldn't reach Dr. Eppes by phone." He looked at the agents. "I don't think we should tell them anything. Let them think that nothing has happened. We'll get Charlie a new phone, and make sure he understands that if the professors call him, he should tell them nothing about what happened. The same goes for all of you – if you happen to speak to them, we will give them the same story, that the Eppes men are still in L.A., recovering from their accident, and they will return to Washington in a few weeks to finish their course at Quantico. By the time the professors come home from Europe, it will be behind us. It is quite possible you that one of you may get a call from them – although Dr. Eppes is alive, he is still in serious condition. He probably won't be up to answering their calls for a couple of days. If you do get a call, we'll need you to keep to their cover story."

The group nodded, soberly. Masters looked at Rogan. "We'll need to figure out how to spin this to Mildred Finch. I'm thinking something along the lines of that same story. We'll handle her."

He turned his gaze on the agents. "I realize this is hard, but it's only until the trial. In the meantime, we appreciate your cooperation."

"What about Don?" asked Megan, softly. "What will happen to him?"

"For now, we're holding him in a private cell at the MDC, to make it appear that we don't suspect anything. We've already consulted a neurosurgeon, who is going to schedule him for surgery to remove the apparatus. Once that is complete, we will work on deprogramming him – reversing the brainwashing. No charges will be filed against him."

"Can we visit them?" asked David.

Masters shook his head, and he and Rogan rose from their seats. "I'm sorry, no. Charlie's location is to remain secret, and until Don is deprogrammed, we need to limit contact with him. We appreciate your understanding. If you receive any inquiries about either of them, we need to know."

With a nod, they exited, leaving the FBI team sitting in silence. Colby finally broke it. "Thank God," he said. "For a few hours there, I thought the world was ending."

"I wouldn't celebrate if I were you," said Wright grimly. "It's not over yet."

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They got a messenger in to Alan Eppes two days later. He had actually turned out to be truly difficult to reach. Rogan and Masters had traced him to Juneau, but it took nearly a day of phone calls to determine that he'd gone to the cabin of a Juneau businessman named Rory Lannerman. To make things more difficult, it seemed that the cabin was in the middle of nowhere, with no phone access. To get there, one had to travel to the tiny town of Berner by plane, and a recent snowfall had made the roads inaccessible; their man had to snowmobile out to the cabin. Then there was a day's worth of travel to get back to Juneau, and another day's worth of air travel to get back to L.A. Masters arranged for the messenger to travel back with Alan, but instructed the man only to tell him that there was a family emergency. Four days later, he met Alan as he stepped off the private jet, tired, haggard, and fearing the worst.

"Mr. Eppes, my name is Bill Masters," he said, as the senior Eppes descended the short flight of steps from the plane and moved forward. "Please, come with me."

Alan gripped his arm. "It's the boys, isn't it?" he demanded with a choked voice. "What happened?"

Masters took him by the arm, and guided him to a vehicle parked outside the small hangar. "Please, get in," he said. "I'm going to give you a ride home. We can talk in privacy while we ride."

He opened the rear door, and Alan stared at him for a moment, his eyes anxiously searching the man's face; then complied. He was vaguely aware of someone loading his luggage into the trunk as Masters got into the rear seat beside him and gave a nod to the agent at the wheel. "Who are you?" Alan asked, obviously taken aback by the proceedings.

Masters flipped open his badge to display his ID. "My name is Bill Masters; I'm with the Pentagon. Mr. Eppes, there's no good way to tell you this, so I'm just going to get to the point. I'm afraid your son Charlie is dead."

He watched as the man beside him turned white and closed his eyes, his face twisting, a hand reaching blindly for the seat in front of him, as if for support. There was no sound, and Masters realized suddenly that Alan wasn't breathing. He'd just reached out a hand to shake him, when Alan suddenly took in a ragged breath, and bowed his head. He was breathing now, his chest rising and falling as if he'd been running, and for a moment, he just sat that way, before lifting his head. Masters felt his gut twist at the agony in the other man's eyes as Alan turned to look at him, and he tried to push down the feelings of remorse. He was getting soft, he thought, time to get out of this business.

"How?" croaked Alan, then he faltered, clearly unable to speak, tears beginning to form in his eyes.

It wasn't going to get any easier, thought Masters, ruefully. "He was stabbed, four days ago. We've been trying to reach you."

"Four days!" Alan exclaimed faintly. "But – why -," he stammered, and then suddenly buried a face now streaming with tears in his hand. "Oh, God."

For a minute, he sat that way, shoulders shaking with silent grief, and Masters let him go until he managed to collect himself enough to blurt out a stream of questions in a shaking voice, "Where is Don? How did this happen? Were they in Washington?"

Masters' voice was quiet. "No, sir. They were back here. They'd been in a minor accident, and came home to recover. It happened at the FBI offices, four nights ago."

Alan stared at him. "Accident! But why didn't they-," he stopped, shook his head as if to clear it. "What happened at the office? Did a crime suspect go berserk – what?"

The agent hesitated, and Alan gripped his arm, his eyes boring into Masters'. "What is it?"

"It was Don," Masters finally said. "He went crazy, and locked them both in a room. He stabbed Charlie several times – Dr. Eppes passed away at the hospital. Don is in custody, awaiting a psychiatric evaluation. I'm sorry."

Alan had frozen, his hand on Master's arm, and Bill Masters, as he looked into the eyes of the older man across from him, suddenly realized that he knew what hell looked like.

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End Chapter 31

_A/N: Next up, some Don and Charlie... _


	32. Chapter 32

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 32**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

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Brian Rogan walked Alan Eppes through the hallway of the Metropolitan Detention Center, and guided him through the security point to the restricted cellblock. The half dozen cells it contained were empty, except for one. As they stopped at the door, Rogan looked at the hunched figure inside, with pity.

Don Eppes looked like hell. He had dropped weight, and was sporting four days worth of beard. His dark hair was unkempt, and he had circles under his bloodshot eyes. He looked the picture of the deranged killer that he supposedly was, and Rogan felt a pang of alarm at his appearance. '_We've got to tell him,_' he thought to himself. '_I need to talk to Conaghan – we can't let this drag out any longer._'

Don had paid no attention to them – had not even looked their direction, but when Alan's quiet, pain-filled voice broke the quiet, his head jerked up, and he slowly rose to his feet. Rogan could see the look in his eyes – tortured guilt, grief, pain, and he took a deep breath, trying to keep his own voice steady.

"Don, your dad is here to see you – we are allowing a cell visit, if you wish." He didn't wait for the reply, just lifted his hand, signaling the camera and the man running the door controls, and the door latching mechanism clicked. Rogan pulled the door open, allowing Alan to enter.

Alan stepped inside; Rogan could see tears in the man's eyes, and for a moment, they faced each other, wordlessly.

"Dad –," Don managed a croak; then stopped, overcome. Alan suddenly stepped forward and embraced him; holding him tightly, and Don seemed to collapse against him, his face contorted with agony. Alan sank onto the cot for support, still holding him, Don's head against his shoulder.

"Donnie." Alan's voice was pain-racked, pleading. "Please tell me it isn't true – what they're saying."

A soft strangled noise came from Don's throat, and words spilled out, ragged with grief and remorse. "It's true, Dad. I did it – I'm sorry – I just – went crazy. There were these voices – in my head -," he broke off, and the last words came out as a whisper. "I think I'm going insane."

Rogan had to step away – he couldn't bear to watch. He moved halfway down the cellblock toward the doorway, and set his jaw grimly. They had a meeting with Conaghan scheduled right after this visit, and Rogan decided on the spot that he was going to push for giving Don Eppes some information. It had been four days, and there had been no sign of anyone trying to contact Eppes since the attack. Even if they couldn't tell Don that his brother was still alive, they should at least let him know what had been done to him – that the attack hadn't been his fault. If they didn't, they might run the risk that he truly would go insane. For the second time, it occurred to him that there might be some way to get to the planners of the assassination through Don, but they were at a loss as to how to do it, if the planners didn't contact him. It was time, he decided; time to ask Conaghan to talk to Don Eppes.

……………………………………

Don closed his eyes and leaned into the solid arms around him. It had been too much to hope that his father would want to see him; in fact, Don hadn't even taken his single allowed phone call. He couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting to see him, to talk to him again. Now here was his father, with his arms around him, offering support and comfort to the maniac who had killed his youngest son. It was inconceivable, and Don hated himself for allowing himself to accept that comfort, that love, especially in the midst of his father's obvious grief. He couldn't help himself; however, he was sinking fast, and his father's presence was a life raft. He leaned against Alan, grabbed one of his strong arms, and hung on.

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Martha Bodman eyed the frail-looking figure as the young man was helped from the helicopter into a waiting wheelchair. The concrete pad had been installed at their remote cabin in the Denver mountains five years ago, when her husband Tom had retired from his position in the Navy. Their home had been used more than once as a safe house, and somewhere along the line, it had occurred to the powers in Washington that her status as a retired doctor made it ideal for government witnesses who also were in need of medical care. So she and Tom had agreed to a little post-retirement business – the most secret bed and breakfast in the Rockies, as they laughingly referred to it.

She eyed the young man with interest as an agent pushed him closer. She and Tom rarely were given the particulars of the cases; they usually had no idea of why their patients were there, although they had the necessary clearances for the information, if the patients needed to talk. All she had was the patient's medical history, including the descriptions of his recent injuries and treatments. He was a stabbing victim, and had broken ribs. Looked a bit undernourished, too, she thought to herself. What drew her attention, however, was his demeanor. He appeared utterly dejected – no, make that deeply depressed; his eyes were focused downward, and he gave no sign that he cared about what was going on around him. He simply sat silently in the chair as they maneuvered it inside the cabin.

Martha followed them in and then stepped around to the front of the chair, and extended her hand. "I'm Martha," she said, and waved a hand at Tom, who had moved to her side, "and this is Tom. I understand that you are Dr. Charles Eppes?"

The young man finally looked up at her, and after a brief hesitation, took her outstretched hand. "Yes," he said quietly. "Everyone calls me Charlie."

Martha was taken aback at the desolate look in his eyes, but she hid her reaction and smiled reassuringly. "Welcome, Charlie." She stepped to the side and opened a door, revealing a first floor bedroom. "If you're tired you can rest – either in your bedroom; or right here in the family room on one of the sofas. Are you hungry?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, thank you. I _am_ tired – I think I would prefer the bedroom, if that's okay." His voice sounded soft, uncertain, and it seemed to Martha that whatever had happened to him, it seemed to have sucked the life out of him. They maneuvered the wheelchair into the room, and he stood, stiffly, and Tom took his arm for support as the young man shakily managed the two steps to the bed, and eased himself slowly onto it. Martha helped pull the soft quilt up over him, and tucked him in with motherly care. "Just let me know if you need anything," she said. "There's an intercom in the room – we'll hear you."

Her patient said nothing, just nodded, and closed his eyes. Martha stood and surveyed him for a second, a frown on her face, and then stepped quietly out and closed the door.

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Bill Masters sat silently in the secure office a floor above the FBI headquarters, listening as Brian Rogan prepared to make his case. The cell phone was set on speaker, and CIA Director James Conaghan and FBI Director Dave Maxwell were on the other end in Conaghan's Langley office. Rogan spoke – his voice and manner far more direct than usual, his jaw set stubbornly. "With all due respect, gentlemen, we have to do something if we still plan to have Don Eppes testify."

"The hearings were moved back one week, to give Dr. Eppes more time to recover. We have time," Conaghan reminded him.

"If we don't do something, one week more or less isn't going to matter. Don Eppes is gonna go off his rocker," responded Rogan with uncharacteristic bluntness. Masters had to stifle a grin. Rogan was starting to sound as gruff as he was. Of course, he agreed with Rogan, completely, which probably meant that he was getting soft. '_Work with someone long enough, and they start to rub off on you_,' he thought to himself.

Rogan continued. "We haven't seen any sign that anyone has tried to contact him since the attack. He met with a shrink today for an evaluation, and told him that he hadn't heard the voices since then. I think his programmers are done with him, and I think it's safe to tell him about the apparatus in his head, and that he was brainwashed, at the very least. Doc Janovic has him scheduled for surgery next week – we have to tell him before then anyway."

"I couldn't agree more," came Dave Maxwell's voice. "I think we've waited long enough. If no one has tried to contact him by now, I don't think they're going to."

"I received some news today that we need to consider," replied Conaghan. "I told you at our last meeting that they had located Dr. Allman's body, and three miles from there they found Joe Bishop's cell phone and discharged service weapon. We just got the ballistics report back – the bullet that killed Allman was fired from Bishop's gun. Bishop himself is AWOL - we think he may have gone into hiding."

Masters shook his head. "Man, I have a really hard time believing that Joe was behind this."

"No one knows for sure who was directing Dr. Allman, other than the doctor himself. I agree with you – I wouldn't have thought Bishop capable of this. However, he _was_ the agent who suggested that Don Eppes be brought to Cypress in the first place. On the other hand, we have interviewed Agent Edgerton. He had no idea what was going on with Eppes at Cypress Institute – Edgerton said they put Eppes through what they called therapy sessions, and he seemed certain that Bishop didn't know any more than he did about what was occurring in them. Of course, if Bishop were in on it, he would have simply pretended he didn't know. What concerns me is that Bishop is still out there, somewhere. He may not have tried to contact Eppes yet, but that doesn't mean he won't."

"So we clue Don in, and have him play along if he's contacted."

There was silence, and then Conaghan said, "There are some problems with that – namely, as long as the hardware is in his head, he can still be controlled. However, you're right about one thing – we would like him to be capable of testifying when the time comes. I don't want him to have a mental breakdown. I agree on one condition – we still do not let him know his brother is alive."

Rogan and Masters exchanged a look. "Yes, sir. That goes without saying."

"All right. The two of you can handle it. I sent a man named Jonathan Wilkes out to L.A. He was in charge of the team who brainwashed Eppes at Cypress Institute. He was stunned to hear that the mission wasn't sanctioned – he'd been receiving his orders from Allman, and thought he was working an approved job. He is going to meet with Dr. Janovic to discuss the procedure they used, and I tapped him to do Eppes' deprogramming. He will be posing as an area psychologist, and he'll be accompanied by Agent Ian Edgerton. I hadn't planned to start the deprogramming so soon – I thought that perhaps Bishop might try to contact Eppes - but I agree with you, we probably shouldn't wait any longer. Wilkes and Edgerton will be arriving at noon in L.A. – which I believe is less than an hour from now, your time. You should include Wilkes and Janovic in your meeting when you give Don Eppes the news – I'm sure he'll have questions."

"What about Alan Eppes?" asked Masters, and Rogan looked at him in surprise.

Masters ignored the look, and continued. "I think we ought to tell him about the brainwashing, too. I think we can trust him – I don't see it as a big risk, as long as we don't tell either of them that Charlie is alive until after the hearings."

There was silence on the other end; then Conaghan sighed. "Very well. I agree. You can let him know that much."

"And Charlie Eppes?" Masters pressed. "Can we tell him about the wiring?"

Conaghan hesitated, and then spoke to Maxwell. "Dave, you know them better than I do – what do you think?"

Maxwell spoke reluctantly. "I think it's best not to tell Charlie until after the hearings. I think the temptation would be too great for him to try to contact Don, or his father, if he knew."

"Very well," said Conaghan. "You can include Alan when you tell Don about the wiring, but you need to defer informing Charlie until after the hearings. And of course, neither Alan nor Don is to know that Charlie is alive until then." He paused. "You're walking a thin line here, gentlemen – the more information that goes out, the harder it is to control."

"Yes sir, we know. We'll take that into consideration. Thank you, gentlemen," said Rogan, and hit the 'off' button on the cell phone as Conaghan disconnected. He looked at Masters, with a grin. "You old softy."

Masters snorted and grinned back, companionably. "Not as soft as you, yet." He rose. "Let's go set this thing up."

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Alan sat slumped in a chair in the living room, still wearing his jacket from his visit to the prison, staring at the lacquered box of ashes on the coffee table. The agents had presented it to him with their regrets, mumbling something about hospital policy, three days, and cremation. He had just stared at them, and they had hesitated for a moment and then the agent holding it had placed it gently on the coffee table.

Alan gazed at the neat wooden box; it seemed inconceivable to him that it held the remains of his son. Not only was Charlie dead, Alan hadn't even gotten to view his body, hadn't had a chance to arrange a funeral. When he'd had left for Alaska, he had left two vibrant, intelligent sons, full of life, looking forward to working together on their course in D.C. He had returned to the end of life as he knew it, one son gone, the other sinking into insanity. It had been less than twenty hours since he'd gotten the news, and he was starting to feel as though he was going insane, himself. He was beyond shock; he was numb with grief. He couldn't move; he couldn't think.

There was a knock at the door, and he sluggishly roused himself, and tottered over to open it. Agent Rogan stood at the door, with an apologetic look on his face. "Mr. Eppes, I was wondering if you could accompany us back to the prison. We have something that you should hear."

……………………………………………

CIA operative Mike Tate sat up in the front seat of his car, and examined the group walking toward the MDC entrance with interest. Alan Eppes was back – he'd been at the prison less than two hours ago, and here he was again, this time accompanied by Rogan and Masters, and three other men. One of them was Dr. Janovic – Tate knew that the neurosurgeon had been assigned as Don Eppes' doctor, although he'd found out little else, in spite of the bug he'd placed in the doctor's office. This however, bore reporting. He flipped open his cell phone, and dialed the man he knew as Joe Bishop.

………………………………………………

J. Scott Marsh rose hastily from his desk at Langley, and shut the door. After disposing of Bishop and Allman, he'd ended up staying at the condo on the Florida panhandle for two more days, hanging with the pretty young thing he'd found. He made sure to call the office once or twice from that location, cementing his alibi, not that anyone seemed to be looking for him. After he returned, it had become apparent that they'd bought his ruse – his boss had come to him to ask quietly if he's seen Joe Bishop in the last several weeks, and if he'd noticed anything odd about his behavior. Marsh knew then that they'd found Allman, and they also must have found Bishop's cell phone and gun. Sure enough, the next day an inter-agency memo was issued to all field agents, warning them that Joe Bishop had turned, and was considered a threat. Marsh had to call the operative in L.A., Mike Tate, and explain to the man that the memo was part of a cover, and that he should ignore it when he received it.

Now Mike Tate was on the cell phone, and Marsh flipped it open. "Yes."

Tate's voice came over the line. "I have activity at the MDC. The subject was visited this morning by his father, and agents Rogan and Masters. That seemed routine, but now they're back, and there are three others with them. One of the three is Dr. Janovic."

Marsh frowned, with a furtive glance toward the door. "Yes, that does seem irregular. You've gotten nothing from your audio surveillance of the doctor's office?"

"Not yet, but I may after this morning. I'm going to go nose around the hospital, and see what I can find out there after I'm done here."

"All right, go ahead, and keep me posted." Marsh snapped his phone shut, and sat, considering. Did they know? Had they found the wiring in Eppes' head somehow? Perhaps the agent had collapsed, or was exhibiting signs of insanity – something that warranted a check by the doctor. Or possibly, this could be a routine visit to determine his competency for a trial.

Part of Marsh said to sit tight, and the other part itched for action – to head out to L.A. and try to find out for himself what was going on. According to his directions, the CIA courier from New Orleans had driven the control vest out to L.A. and had stashed it in a locker in an upscale gym, then mailed Marsh the key for the locker. With the vest, he had the means to control Eppes – as long as he was still wired. Maybe now was the time – the time to stage the prison break, and get Eppes out of there while he could still be manipulated. Get him out, and get rid of him, get rid of the last bit of suspicious evidence. At the very least he could go out and reconnoiter. He tapped his fingers on the desk for a moment, then picked up his office phone, and dialed his boss.

"Yes, sir – I hate to say this, sir, but I need to ask for some more leave. My sister in Vegas just called me – she got some terrible news – breast cancer. She's alone out there – I'd like to go out and help her out – get her a good doctor… Yes sir, thank you. I'll have Jim Sykes cover for me in my absence. Thanks again."

He flipped the phone shut, took a deep breath, and smiled, grimly. He was going back into the field – and he could feel the adrenaline rush, already.

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End, Chapter 32


	33. Chapter 33

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 33**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. This one's a bit longer..._

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_Charlie cowered in the corner, dark eyes huge in his child's face. Tears streamed down his cheeks – he was shaking as Don advanced, inexorably_. "Please Donnie," he entreated, tremulously. "I'm sorry, please – don't…"

Don sat up in his cell with a gasp, beads of sweat on his forehead. The dream was relentless; he couldn't escape it - it appeared every time he slept. Sometimes, it took this form – Charlie as a child, trapped in a corner of the garage, and sometimes, it was an adult Charlie who occupied the nightmares – Charlie in the glass-walled conference room at the FBI office, vainly trying to fend off a stabbing. Both versions were unbearable, and Don's sleep had been fitful, broken, as a result. He was exhausted, at the end of his limits physically and mentally.

The buzzer sounded for the door at the end of his cellblock, and he rubbed his face to clear the visions and sat up. He was the only one in the block, so if the door opened, it was someone for him. As Brian Rogan appeared in front of his cell along with a guard, he frowned in confusion. Hadn't they just been there with his father? Was he losing track of the days now, too?

Rogan looked at him through the bars, and Don could see a trace of something that looked like sympathy in his face. "Agent, I need you to come with me. We have some things we need to discuss – we're going to a conference room on the premises." As he spoke, the guard signaled toward a camera, and the cell door clicked. The guard pushed it open, and Don rose, casting another glance at Rogan, looking for more information.

None was forthcoming; instead, he was led out of the block down a hall, and down another to an elevator. It let out into a short hallway one floor down that accessed two private conference rooms, used for prisoners to meet in confidence with their lawyers. Rogan held open one of the doors, and as Don entered, he saw his father and other familiar faces – Bill Masters, Ian Edgerton, and the man who had treated him in Louisiana after his head injury – what was his name? Don couldn't quite remember – it was as if something was in the way…

"Sit down, Don," said Bill Masters, quietly, and Don realized that he'd simply been standing there, frowning. The door had closed behind him, leaving the guard outside. Edgerton's eyes were narrowed; he was studying Don appraisingly, and Don got the impression that he didn't like what he saw. Understandable – he was looking at a man who'd killed his innocent brother in an insane fit of fury. With a grimace of self-loathing, Don sat. For the first time, he noticed the other occupant of the room, a trim man with sandy hair, in his mid-forties. Rogan introduced him as Dr. Janovic, a neurosurgeon.

"Don," continued Masters, indicating the man from Louisiana, "do you remember this man?"

Don's eyes flickered back to the man in the corner. "I -," Don began; then stopped. He looked at Alan as if for help, but his father appeared as confused as Don felt. Don turned his eyes back to Masters. "I remember him -," he stopped and looked at the man. "You treated me after the car accident – I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

The man spoke up, quietly. "Jonathan Wilkes. You wouldn't remember my name, Don, you were programmed not to."

"What is this?" Alan demanded, suddenly. "Does he need a lawyer?"

Masters shook his head. "No – we aren't here to question him, Mr. Eppes. You're both here because we owe you some answers."

"I'll take it from here," said Wilkes. "Don, I'm part of a special team that works at Cypress Institute, where you were taken after the accident. Much of the work at Cypress is unclassified, and supports medical research. There is a group of us there, however, who do highly classified work for the government. On occasion, we do assignments for special interests, people who have a need for what is rather archaically termed as brainwashing."

"Brainwashing!" exclaimed Alan.

Don said nothing; he just stared at the man, but somewhere, in the grief-fogged depths of his brain, something stirred. His gut told him that whatever this man was about to tell him, it was related to Charlie's death.

Wilkes kept a steady gaze on Don's face. "Do you remember going through surgery after the accident?"

Don nodded, slowly. "Yes. The doctor there -," He stopped, frowning.

"Dr. Allman," prompted Wilkes.

Don's face cleared. "Yes, Dr. Allman did the surgery. He told me I had a very small bleed that needed to be taken care of."

Wilkes shook his head gently. "That is what you were told. There was no bleed; the fact is, we had been instructed to reprogram you. Part of that reprogramming consisted of placing wiring in your brain – it's very similar to surgery done to correct tremors in Parkinson's patients, although the leads are routed to other areas of the brain – namely those that control decision-making and emotional response." He paused for reactions, but there were none – both men sat, their gazes riveted, confusion on their faces, and waited for him to proceed. Ian Edgerton, who hadn't been told what they'd done to Don, sat in the corner, eyes narrowed, with just a hint of comprehension dawning on his face, but he too, was silent.

Wilkes took a deep breath. "Along with the wires, we implanted a device in your head that is attached to your auditory nerve. Through it, you can receive instructions – they're transmitted directly through that nerve into your brain. To you, it would have sounded like someone was speaking to you – which they were."

Don's eyes flickered with recognition. "The voices," he said, in a half-whisper.

Wilkes nodded. "Yes. No one else, however, could hear it." Don's eyes had dropped; he had a distant look in his eyes, as if dredging up some long-ago memory. Wilkes kept his eyes on him, and continued. "By applying electrical current to the wires, we could control your emotions, your ability to make decisions, and we could instruct you through the device in your head. We coupled all of that hardware with two intensive weeks of brainwashing. The equipment shortens the brainwashing process, and makes it much more effective."

Alan interjected, sputtering. "You expect us to believe this – this – science fiction? You're trying to get him to say something he shouldn't."

Wilkes held out his hands with a placating gesture. "Trust me, I wish I didn't have to be here to tell you this. If you want physical evidence, just feel gently inside your collarbone, Don – either side. That's where the batteries sit that provide the electrical impulses."

Don looked at him, then at Alan, then back at Wilkes, and finally raised a hand toward his collarbone, then dropped it. "I can't."

Wilkes' face twitched with a grim half-smile. "Yes, you can. You don't want to, because we programmed you that way. Go ahead, it's okay."

Don's brow furrowed and he raised his hand again, feeling under the collar of the jumpsuit. As he did so, an odd look crossed his face, and he nodded faintly at Alan; then faced Wilkes, anger starting to dawn on his face. "So what was the purpose of this – brainwashing? Was it part of the operation that Charlie and I were working on?"

Alan spoke before Wilkes had a chance to answer, his voice shaking with grief. "This is why – isn't it? What you did to Donnie backfired, drove him insane. That's why he attacked Charlie."

Wilkes exchanged a glance with Rogan and Masters, and when he replied his voice was heavy. "Not exactly. Don isn't insane, and the programming worked as planned. He did precisely what we wanted him to – we programmed him to kill his brother."

For a moment, there was an unearthly silence in the room; then suddenly, Don erupted from his chair, lunging for Wilkes. "You son of a bitch!" he roared, reaching for Wilkes' throat. Rogan and Masters were immediately on him, restraining him, but they could barely hold him; he was thrashing like a madman. Wilkes had leapt to his feet and backpedaled quickly, out of range of Don's grasping hands.

"Don, stop!" came Alan's voice from behind him.

"You – you -," Don gasped, his face contorted in fury, still intent on reaching Wilkes, dragging Rogan and Masters with him. Ian Edgerton had risen to his feet, behind Wilkes.

"Donnie, stop!" commanded Alan again, louder this time. "That won't bring him back."

The words, ragged with grief, were like a cold burst of ice water, and Don sagged suddenly in Rogan and Masters' grip. Wilkes shook his head, sadly, his eyes still fixed on Don. "I'm sorry, Agent, those were our orders. We think now that Joe Bishop planned the whole thing – he must have been part of the smuggling plot, was probably working for Aswad Shar'e, the terrorist group behind it all. We think Bishop was the one who gave Dr. Allman the orders."

Rogan and Masters guided Don back into his seat, and he collapsed there, as Ian Edgerton spoke for the first time. "You _think_ Bishop gave him the orders. You don't know?"

Masters responded. "Dr. Allman was found murdered a few days ago, and the bullet in him matches a gun found by the side of a riverbank about three miles away, along with Joe Bishop's cell phone. The gun bore Bishop's prints. Unfortunately, Dr. Allman was the only one who could tell us who gave him his orders. Bishop himself is AWOL."

Edgerton's face clouded with suspicion. "I worked with Bishop for weeks on the assignment, and so did the Eppes brothers. I waited with him at Cypress Institute for two more weeks while Don Eppes was being – programmed. I knew nothing about it, and I'm sure Bishop didn't either. If he did, he's the best damned actor I've ever seen. And if he's that bright, he wouldn't have left his gun and his cell phone where it could be found."

Masters shrugged. "Who knows why he ditched them that way? Maybe he was about to be pulled over for a driving infraction, and had to get rid of them in a hurry. The fact remains, he disappeared at the same time, and you have to admit that is highly suspicious."

Edgerton looked unconvinced. "He was our handler – he could have taken care of the three of us at any time. Why would he wait?"

"They needed Charlie's programming," returned Masters. "They needed to be sure that the clients from Aswad Shar'e would accept it." He shot a meaningful glance at Alan, who, desperate for answers, was drinking in every word. "Mr. Eppes, I'm sorry, but we can't go into all the details of their assignment – it's classified. We just wanted you and Don to know that what happened to Charlie wasn't Don's fault."

Don was staring at the floor, miserably. "It _was_ my fault. I should have fought it."

"You did," said Wilkes, quietly. "You need to understand – you had no other options. Everything was being controlled, even the choice of weapon. A gunshot might have been perceived as an accident, that's why we went with a knife; we had planned for you take the fall, so there could be no question that it was murder." Don winced at that, and Wilkes paused. "We orchestrated it all, including the site, and the audience. You should know that you fought it harder than anyone I've ever seen. The mind control is impossible to overcome, agent, but if it's any consolation, you came closer to doing that than anyone ever has before. And based on your reaction now, I have high hopes that your de-programming will be complete."

"There's a chance it wouldn't be? Complete, I mean," asked Alan worriedly. "I don't understand."

Don had looked up at the last statement, and Wilkes faced him, resolutely, as he answered Alan's question. "There is always a risk that someone who has been brainwashed might not be able to be deprogrammed completely, even when the wiring has been removed. There may be permanent changes to your brain's circuitry. Plus, while the wiring still in place, there is continued risk – you are at the mercy of anyone who has access to the controls. For that reason, Dr. Janovic, here, has scheduled you for surgery within the week to remove them. In addition, however, you will need to go through therapy sessions to unlearn what we taught you."

"In short, I can't be trusted," Don replied bitterly.

Wilkes shook his head and sighed. "Unfortunately, no. Not yet. Although, once the wiring is removed, and even now, while it is inactive, you are no threat to anyone else – your programming was focused entirely on Charlie."

Masters spoke up, his eyes boring into Don's. "I realize this is difficult to hear, Agent Eppes, but there is still something you can do to avenge the attack on your brother. During the next few days while you are waiting for your surgery, if you begin to hear the voices again, it will mean that someone is trying to contact you, to assert control. If you encounter that, you need to tell us immediately, before that person can exert too much influence over you. If you do that, we may have a shot at catching Bishop, or whomever he might be working with. We would also like you to testify at the hearings, concerning what you know about the smuggling scheme, and about Montreaux's cocaine operation." He looked at Alan, and back at Don. "Obviously, none of this can leave this room. Assistant Director Wright, Megan Reeves, and agents Granger, Bentancourt, and Sinclair have all been briefed on what happened to you. Other than them, the people in this room, and Directors Maxwell and Conaghan, no one knows the real story, and we intend to keep it that way, for your own safety."

"What about Robin Brooks?" asked Don.

Masters shook his head. "She doesn't know yet. She has asked to see you, but we haven't allowed her to visit, at least so far – we're trying to keep this to as few people as possible. It's only for a short time, until after the hearings, and then we'll give her clearance, and you'll be able to brief her on what happened. You should understand that no charges will be pressed against you, but until the hearings, we need to pretend that you are in custody, awaiting a grand jury hearing for Charlie's murder."

Don grimaced at the last statement, and swallowed, but nodded. "I understand," he said hoarsely. He looked up, his eyes haunted. "I'll do whatever it takes to catch the people responsible for this. You can count on that."

Masters nodded. "Good. I knew we could."

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Alan sat silently in Rogan's car on the way back to the Craftsman, and Brian left him to his thoughts until they had pulled up in the driveway. "I realize this is a lot to handle," he said, quietly.

Alan was jolted out of his thoughts, and for a moment, he looked at Rogan as if he wasn't sure how the man had gotten there. Then he sighed, and ran a hand over his face. "I didn't have the heart to ask Don," he said, "but this undercover operation – whose idea was it? Who could have thought that putting Charlie - an untrained person - in the middle of this was a good idea?"

"The U.S. government," replied Rogan, wryly. "We needed someone with Charlie's skills and clearance, and there were just not that many to pick from. We thought that by putting Don in undercover with him we would help protect him. If it means anything, Don was against it from the start. I'm afraid we did a good job of convincing Charlie it was the right thing to do. For our country's sake, even in retrospect, it was still the right thing to do."

"This – this Aswad Shar'e – they're a terrorist group?"

Rogan nodded. "Yes. They were, and still are, I imagine, trying to smuggle advanced weapons technology and equipment to Iran. This will be a serious setback for them; it might derail their plans entirely. None of this will have been in vain." He was silent for a moment; then said, "I have one more thing to ask of you. We have already pulled in more people than we care to, on this. We understand that Charlie's girlfriend and colleague are in Europe right now, with plans to return the day after the hearings are over. It is best, and safest for them and for Don, if they stay there until that time. Perhaps you can delay Charlie's memorial service until then, and minimize contact with them – in fact, avoiding their calls might be best. If Charlie had told them about your Alaska trip, they might believe that you're still there- maybe they won't bother to call you, if they don't know what happened."

Alan looked at him, and Rogan could see fresh sadness in his eyes. "Amita -," he broke off suddenly, and put a shaking hand over his face. "God." After a moment, he managed to get enough control to say. "They were very close. I think Charlie was contemplating proposing." He cleared his throat and looked at Rogan. "I can do what you say, but I would think that they would begin to ask questions when they couldn't get hold of Charlie."

Rogan looked back at him steadily. "Let us handle that. Thank you, Mr. Eppes."

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Charlie woke to a gentle knock on the door, and for a moment, had no idea where he was; the strange room, the pain medication had left him disoriented. In the seconds it took for the door to gently open, the memories returned, bringing fresh despair with them. One of the agents who had traveled with him to the cabin was looking at him around the edge of the door, and Charlie struggled to sit up, painfully.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Eppes, but the chopper is leaving, and I needed to brief you on one more thing before I left." He entered the room, and held out a small but bulky yellow envelope. As Charlie took it from him, he said, "That's a new cell phone. We couldn't be sure that your old one wouldn't be traced, so we had to get you a new one. As you might expect, your friends in Europe have been trying to reach you – they've left several messages on your old phone during the past few days. We would like you to contact them, and assure them that everything is fine – that you merely lost your old phone and were too busy to get a new one. It sounds as though they still believe you to be in Washington, D.C., working on the course. We understand that they have plans to return the day after the hearings conclude. It would be best for their own safety if they stuck to that plan – if you didn't tell them what happened until afterward. Can you do that for us?"

Charlie had taken the cell phone out, and was staring at it, blankly. "Yes – I guess – I mean, I can."

"Your father has been contacted, and is making sure that your brother is being cared for. I know this will be difficult, but you must promise us, for your safety, and especially for your father's, that you have no contact with him until after the hearings. We have told him the need for that, and he agrees and understands. It will only be for a couple of weeks."

Charlie stared at him, and then down at the phone, stricken. His father. He suddenly wished for nothing more than to be with him, to hold him and be held; to feel the contact of someone he loved, of someone who loved him. But then, how could he know how his father really felt about him? Perhaps Alan would blame him for pushing Don to the edge. It might be that he really _was _an insufferable jerk, and didn't know it. He'd assumed that Don had cared for him, when nothing could be further from the truth. Maybe he was wrong about his father, too. Maybe he was wrong about everyone.

The agent spoke again, earnestly. "I don't need to tell you how dangerous these people are. Don't give them any reason to go after your father. Can I have your word that you will not contact him?"

Charlie blinked, and looked back at him. "Yes," he said hoarsely. "You have my word."

The agent nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Eppes. Tom and Martha will be attending to your needs – please listen to Martha; she is an excellent physician. You need to work on healing, and preparing for the trial. As it draws closer, we'll send some people out to brief you on your testimony." He bobbed his head in farewell, and walked out the door.

Charlie gazed after him, dazedly, and then looked down at the cell phone in his lap. He longed to hear a friendly voice, longed to hear _Amita's_ voice, but he hated the thought of lying to her. This was not about what he wanted anymore, however. He had to find the strength to get through this, to testify, to do his duty, and if lying to Larry and Amita for a few more weeks for their own safety and for the good of the mission was necessary, then he would have to do it. The truth was; the thought of getting through the hearings, of finishing the assignment, was the only thing that was keeping him afloat. That sense of duty was something that reminded him of Don, the way he was before... Somehow, he had to find the will to get through the trial, and he clung grimly to the thought, like a life preserver. It was something to occupy his mind, to keep him from remembering.

He couldn't think about what had happened; it was too fresh, too horrible, too painful. The brother whom he loved so much wanted him dead – he could feel the weight of it on his soul.

He glanced down at the phone again, still stupid with pain and grief, and realized as he saw the digital time display that it was late afternoon. It was the middle of the night where Amita was. He would wait a few hours; then call her, he told himself. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep again; clutching the phone like a child clutches a treasure, and in his dreams, he felt his father's soft touch on his forehead, heard his soothing voice.

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Alan stood in the living room, the early evening twilight seeping through the windows. The lacquer box sat before him on the table, and he bent and picked it up with hands that shook a little, then shuffled over to the sofa, and sank onto it.

The entire situation weighed on his mind – sitting there, waiting to be assimilated, but too large, too strange to fathom. The news that Don was a victim rather than a criminal had brought relief in one sense, although he ached for Don, for what he must be going through. Relief in one area, however, made way for clarity in another; his grief was coalescing now, condensing, coming in to focus on the loss of Charlie. His youngest occupied his thoughts now, visions of a brilliant smile, intelligent dark eyes and tousled curls filled his mind, until the grief filled him, completely and entirely.

He stroked the lid of the lacquered box with a thumb, and a snatch of a song came to him, weaving through his anguish-filled mind. It was from another faith, but somehow, it seemed appropriate. He trailed a gentle finger across the box, and whispered,

_Go to sleep my son  
Go and chase your dreams  
This world can wait for one more moment  
Go and sleep in peace_

He caught his breath in a sob, and the tears finally came, spilling out, bathing the lid of the box. The drops glittered in the twilight like diamonds, beautiful, ethereal, like the life that had been snatched away.

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End, Chapter 33

Verse from Joseph's Lullaby, on MercyMe's Christmas CD


	34. Chapter 34

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 34**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

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Charlie awoke at around seven that evening, to a soft knock on the door. Dr. Martha Bodman stuck her head in the opening and looked at him as he tried to focus, groggily. "I have some dinner for you, Charlie," she said. "We need to get you up for a bit and do some breathing exercises; then you can eat and rest again."

She didn't wait for a response, but in a gentle yet firm manner that suggested arguments would be futile, proceeded to open the door, revealing an imposing figure behind her. Tom Bodman's powerful, rangy form towered over her, and they moved toward his bed. Charlie realized that he was clutching his cell phone with white knuckles, and fought down a momentary surge of panic that seemed to come from out of nowhere.

Martha eyed him sympathetically. "I'm sorry if I startled you. I brought Tom to help; we need to get you up and walking for just a bit, and I'm sure you need to use the bathroom." She slid a supporting hand under his back, which was already slightly elevated; the bed was adjustable, like a hospital gurney. Charlie pushed down with his hands as he struggled upright, wincing at the pain in his chest.

Tom Bodman nodded, smiling broadly. "How do ye do, doctor?" he asked in a deep resonant voice. He sounded like an amiable rancher, an easy-going cowboy, not a former Navy Seal who could break someone's neck with a quick twist of his hands.

"Call me 'Charlie,'" said Charlie faintly; and he slowly slid his feet over the edge of the bed as the Bodmans supported him on either side. Martha deftly slid some slippers on his feet, and he stood; momentarily dizzy.

"The dizziness is normal," said Martha. "You've been on your back for quite a while, and you had lost a lot of blood, according to the reports. It will improve as you get your strength back. Now let's try walking, shall we?"

Together they shuffled out of the room into a large, high-ceilinged living area. The entire cabin was made of timber, inside and out, and the wood walls and cheery plaid of the sofas spoke of warmth, and comfort. Comfort was the last thing Charlie was feeling at the moment; however, his chest was aching, his knees were shaking, and Martha Bodman was right – he did need to use the bathroom, which was thankfully located right next to his room. They got him situated in front of the toilet with one hand on a metal support bar anchored to the wall, and mercifully left him in privacy, although Martha shot him an anxious look on the way out.

He managed to get his sweatpants down and sat to relieve himself, wondering dully, vaguely, when his knees had gotten to look so bony; not really caring that they were. He'd barely gotten to his feet and his pants up again before the door opened, as if Martha knew without being told that he was ready. He shuffled over to the sink and washed his hands, leaning over it for a moment to catch his breath, which seemed to be hard to get. Tom and Martha walked him out, and he could hear Martha say quietly, "Let's take him back to his room. I don't think he's up for the kitchen yet."

By the time he got back to his bed, his body failed him. He sagged onto his knees, and had to suffer the indignity of being lifted bodily by Tom and set gently into bed, where he lay, panting with exhaustion. He barely noticed when Tom left the room, and slumped motionless against the inclined back of the bed while Martha stuck a thermometer in his ear. As he caught his breath and regained some semblance of awareness, he took in her appearance. She was around fifty, he guessed, with a pleasant, slightly lined face, which shone with kindness. Her light brown hair was streaked with strands of gray and tucked back in a smooth, low bun – she looked the personification of the archetypical mom. "Hmm," she said, with a small worried pucker in her forehead, "you're running a slight fever." Out came a stethoscope, and she worked it under his sweatshirt, taking care to place it around the bandages. "Take a deep breath." He complied, and she made a face. "That's not a deep breath, honey. I know it hurts, but you have to take deeper breaths than that – you'll wind up with pneumonia."

He renewed his efforts, breathing in and out on command as deeply as he could, the pain bringing beads of cold sweat to his forehead. Finally, she seemed satisfied. "I don't hear any signs of congestion," she said, as Tom wheeled a cart into the room, "but I'm going to start you on a slightly stronger antibiotic as a precaution. I'm worried you're not getting enough fluids, either; I'm going to start an IV again." She worked quickly, and Charlie endured the needle stick expressionlessly, listlessly. Martha hung a bag on a hook near the bed, added the antibiotic, adjusted the flow, and then pulled the cart forward. A heavenly smell came from it. "Now," she said brightly, "you can eat. I made chicken and dumplings – it should be easy on your stomach."

Charlie had been lying there, exhausted and steeped in misery, barely aware of her ministrations, but her last comment struck a chord. Suddenly he was a boy again, home sick on a glorious fall Saturday. His mother sat by his bedside, and he could smell homemade chicken soup. Donnie came bounding in from outside, his cheeks flushed from the fresh air, and perched on the edge of his bed, watching as his mother spooned chicken soup into Charlie's mouth. He patted Charlie's blanket-covered leg in an awkward gesture of affection, and Charlie gazed back at him, with a seven-year-old's unadulterated adoration.

"Here you go," murmured Martha soothingly as she spooned a bite into Charlie's mouth, and as the achingly familiar taste hit his tongue, he closed his eyes, and tears ran down his cheeks.

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Don began his deprogramming the next day. Jonathan Wilkes had returned to the Metropolitan Detention Center, this time with monitoring equipment, which he set up in a small office that had been vacated for the purpose. He looked up as the door opened, and Don stepped in, his movements halting, tentative.

"Come in and sit down," encouraged Wilkes, with a nod to the guard, who backed out quietly to take up a post outside the door. He looked keenly at Don as he sat. He had shaved and showered; his dark eyes had a flicker of purpose that hadn't been there when he'd walked into the room the day before. "How are you feeling?"

Don shrugged, with a bitter twist of his face, and looked away. How did he feel? Like hell. Like a murderer.

Wilkes examined him for a moment, then said, "I wanted to ask you one thing. You were wearing a denim jacket on the day of the accident, and we modified it and gave it back to you when you left. It held a booster to amplify the signals we sent you for the controls in your head, and a small camera in one of the front buttons. You were wearing it the night of the attack. This might be difficult because we programmed you to blank out the jacket, but do you remember what happened to it?"

Don stared at him, as bits and pieces of the night flashed through his mind. He couldn't remember it all coherently, and to be honest, he didn't want to – he'd pushed the attack out of his mind as best he could. "I – I'm not sure. There was a man – a security officer, I think. I think he took it when I got off the elevator."

Wilkes nodded, thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, Agent Ziegler, our command, had an operative out here helping to facilitate getting Charlie up to the conference room. It was probably him. I'll call Ziegler and get his name. We won't need the jacket anymore, but it would be good to get it sent back to the institute. This isn't technology that we want lying around."

Don frowned at him. "Getting Charlie to the conference room? You wanted him there?"

"Yes," said Wilkes. "Our orders were to make this look like a family argument gone bad, and for it to happen in front of witnesses. We guessed that when Charlie felt threatened, he'd head for your team to help him. We guessed right. The glass conference room was the ideal location."

A picture of the room rose in Don's mind, and he closed his eyes, his gut churning. "God."

Wilkes surveyed him in silence for a moment, giving him a chance to collect himself. "Let's begin. The faster we can get you back to normal, the better." He turned on the equipment in front of him, adjusting dials. "This equipment can monitor your emotions through the signals transmitted by the wires in your brain. It will give us a good read on your reactions as we go through this. I'm going to put some pictures up on the screen – your father, your girlfriend, Robin Brooks, some of your team members."

Don nodded. He was trying to remain composed, but his voice was hoarse. "I remember you doing that during the programming."

"That's right," agreed Wilkes. "We used the pictures to help set a baseline of your normal emotional state, and of what settings we needed to provoke negative emotions. Right now, we aren't trying to provoke or manipulate anything; I'm not applying any current – we just want to see your emotional reactions under normal conditions." He turned on a projector, and an image of Alan Eppes flashed on the screen. He grunted approvingly. "Yes, you're projecting a setting that we call familial love – deep love and affection for a family member or close friend."

"I don't feel anything," said Don dubiously, looking at the picture.

Wilkes turned the equipment so that Don could see the monitor, with its colored bars. "You don't have to – and you wouldn't, necessarily, with those readings. It should be a pretty comfortable state for you. You can see, however, those bars on the right are indicating positive reactions. The ones on the left indicate negative reactions."

He pointed to the graph, and starting with the bar on the far left, named each of them in turn. "In order, going from left to right, the bars represent hate, disgust or loathing, fear, envy, shame, mistrust, impatience, disinterest, interest, patience, trust, pride, selflessness, physical attraction, respect, love. As you can see, the stronger reactions are on either end; milder reactions in the middle. There is another graph underneath," he pointed to a smaller one with three bars, "that indicates the base emotions – anger, sadness, and happiness."

Don gazed at it; the smaller graph showed a small bar for anger, and a large one for sadness, that stretched nearly to the upper limit. The bar for happiness was notably absent. Wilkes eyed him sympathetically. "Obviously, there isn't much for you to be happy about right now, and you show sadness and have some residual anger over what has happened. That graph indicates your underlying emotional state. Of course, these bars are just indicators. No emotion is this easy to categorize – they all interact. It takes some skill on the part of the programmer to interpret them correctly."

He flipped up a picture of Robin, and the settings changed slightly. Wilkes pointed to the bar on the right labeled physical attraction. "This is more indicative of what we call romantic love, which has a sexual component, shown by the bar I'm pointing to, called physical attraction. There's a nice strong bar on the far right, indicating love. Incidentally, that readout has a nice balance. She's a good match for you, according to this. These readings are very normal, so far."

Don reddened slightly, but relaxed a bit. In spite of Wilkes' assertion yesterday that he wasn't insane; he couldn't help but think that his brain was off kilter. It was reassuring to hear that it seemed to be functioning normally. He gazed at the picture for a second – God, he missed her. He hated to imagine what she must think of him – even if she eventually found out the truth, could their relationship survive this?

"You miss her."

It was a statement, not a question, and Wilkes pointed to the bar for sadness, which was easing even further upward. Don nodded.

Wilkes hit a button, and a picture of Colby Granger came up. Don stared at him for a second; then his eyes went to the monitor.

Wilkes pointed. "The bars are relatively centered now, which is neutral territory, common readings for acquaintances. Good readings for trust and respect. You do have a slightly higher than normal bar on the far right than is usual for a co-worker. About halfway up on the 'love' bar indicates a strong like for someone. Notice that the bar for physical attraction, however, has gone down to zero – these are classic readings for a good friend. You have feelings of like, trust, and respect for Agent Granger. I'd guess from this that you are pretty close to your team members."

Don nodded, thinking with a pang of his team. God, what had they thought when they witnessed the attack? Even if they knew now that it hadn't been his fault, it still had to be horrible to witness.

"What's going through your mind right now?"

Don blinked and looked at Wilkes, then at the monitor. The bars were flickering, strengthening to the center left. "I – I was just wondering what they thought when they saw the attack," he said, feeling suddenly awkward.

Wilkes grunted affirmatively. "You can see that when you thought that, some more negative reactions came into play, indicating feelings of guilt, remorse. That's also a healthy, normal reaction. You can see how the electrical impulses generated by your mind can change the readings. Now I want to show you how we were able to manipulate your responses. By applying current to the wires, we could change your emotional state, and influence your reactions. I'm going to change some settings, and you tell me what you feel."

Wilkes fiddled with the knobs, and Don waited, the corner of his mouth quirking in a grin. The smile spread as he was filled with a warm, contented feeling; it was growing now, into unadulterated joy, ecstasy, and he threw back his head and laughed aloud from sheer delight. In the back of his mind, he knew it was wrong to laugh, to be happy, when Charlie was dead, but he couldn't control it. "Stop!" he cried, as another fit of blissful laughter shook him, and then he felt it recede as he gasped, wiping at tears of joy.

He managed to collect himself as Wilkes pointed to the small graph. "I simply changed your base emotional state," he said. "I dialed down the sadness, and turned the control for happiness up to full. That was the result of changing just two controls on the smaller graph. Imagine what we could do to you when we manipulated several of them."

Don had sobered now, and Wilkes looked him intently in the eye. "It's important that you understand the extent of the power we had over you – that none of this was your fault; it was out of your control. If you don't forgive yourself and accept those facts, you'll find it much harder to reverse the programming."

Don, somewhat shaken, swallowed and nodded. "I knew it was wrong inside, to feel happy, but I couldn't stop it. It made me feel out of control – like -,"

He broke off, and Wilkes prompted, "Like?"

"Like I was going nuts," Don said faintly, realization echoing in his voice.

"Like you felt when you attacked your brother," agreed Wilkes, his expression softening. Don nodded; pain apparent in his face. Wilkes continued; his tone low, level. "I'm going to show you something now. This equipment gives us the ability to store settings, and I'm going to put up one that we took before we started to program you." He pressed a button, and the display changed.

Don could feel the sadness receding, and a feeling of apprehension growing. The bar for fear was rising. Envy had risen slightly, as had impatience. A tiny segment of bar had even appeared under hate. On the positive side, however, several bars had risen, trust, respect, and especially, love. He frowned. "What is that?"

"That's Charlie," said Wilkes simply. "These were your perceptions of your brother before we started to program you. The fear component is actually misleading in this case. I doubt you feared him – we took this reading right after your accident, and we surmised that since you'd both just been attacked, you feared for his safety. The rest of the settings, however, were probably accurate as to how you really felt about him. Envious, certainly, probably a by-product of life with a genius. He made you feel impatient at times. We even had a tiny component of hate to start with – not that you hated him, by any means; the reading is not that strong. But there were times when you disliked him – if not in the present, then possibly in the past, when you were younger. On the other hand, it was apparent that you loved him very much, you trusted him, and you respected him. Conflicting feelings, some of them strong. Those strong feelings for him actually made you easier to program – it's easier to manipulate strong feelings than weak ones." He paused, waiting for a reaction, but Don was silent, gazing at the readings with such deep sadness in his eyes, that Wilkes wondered whether he should continue. He had to, however; they had only a few days before the surgery. He hit a button, removing the settings and shutting off the current, and said, "I want you to look at the next image."

Don raised his eyes to see an image of Charlie on the wall, smiling. He recognized it; it had been one of the pictures they'd used over and over again, during the programming. He could feel emotions, powerful, conflicting; rising and swirling inside of him.

He heard Wilkes say quietly, "It looks like we have some work to do."

Don's head jerked toward the monitor. The settings had changed – sadness was still strong, as was love, but the negative reactions and emotions had intensified. Anger was rising, along with all the negative reactions – envy, fear, loathing, and above all, hatred. He looked at Wilkes wildly. "Why is it doing that?"

Wilkes shook his head, sadly. "That, I'm afraid, is the result of the brainwashing. Some of those reactions are hard-wired into your brain now. If he were in the room with you right now, you probably wouldn't attack him – the love you feel for him would keep you from that. You would undoubtedly feel angry toward him, however, resentful, disdainful. It would be an easy thing to ramp down the love, bring up the anger, and get you to a state where you would attack him again. Our job in the next few days will be to retrain the natural circuitry in your head, and try to get you back to how you originally felt about him."

Don's shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes. "Why does it matter?" he asked bitterly, opening them again and looking at Wilkes. "He's gone."

Wilkes hesitated. He had been briefed on the details, and knew that wasn't true – Charlie wasn't dead. It was imperative that they restore Don Eppes to his original state, or he would forever be a threat to his brother. He couldn't tell him that, however, especially after seeing those settings – Don Eppes could not yet be trusted, and with the wiring in his head, could still be manipulated.

"Two reasons," Wilkes said, finally. "First of all, the rewiring of your brain could affect how you think and react to others in the future, especially anyone who reminds you of your brother – I would think you would want your old personality back. Secondly – don't you want to remember him the way you really would have, without all those negative emotions?"

Don stared at him, stricken, and Wilkes could see tears come into his eyes before he raised a shaking hand to his forehead to cover his expression.

"I thought so," said Wilkes, as he watched the bar for sadness creep higher. "Now let's get to work."

* * *

End Chapter 34

_A/N: You didn't think I would make this easy on the boys, now did you? _

_This portion of the story is similar to the relatively calm eye of the hurricane; we're preparing for the second round of action ahead. In fact, this part of the story was plot-hole hell; it is important to control who knows what, and when, for future events, and I can tell you, it got to be pretty mind-boggling. _

_Questions - Will our boys be reunited, and if so, will Don be safe for Charlie to be around? Will they get a chance to testify against Marsh? Will Marsh find out that Charlie, who is an even bigger threat to him than Don, is alive? Will Marsh get to Don before he has his surgery? That and many more questions answered in the coming chapters_


	35. Chapter 35

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 35**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: I'm back…this one's a little shorter, but I'll try to make up for my absence with another bonus chapter this weekend._

……………………………………………

J. Scott Marsh stood underneath the pier in the darkness, and listened to the wash of the Pacific. It was February, and the sun still set early – he could see the faintest of red on the horizon, which vanished as he watched.

He'd arrived in L.A. that afternoon via Vegas, and had gone first to the health club where the CIA courier had stashed the vest that Allman had given him, the one containing the controls for the wiring in Don Eppes' head. Marsh walked in as though he belonged to the club, headed down to the locker room, and using the key the courier had sent him, removed the duffel bag containing the vest. No one gave him a second look. In the car, he examined it for a moment. In L.A., he was within range of Eppes – he could conceivably turn the controllers on, speak to him, manipulate his mind with the touch of a dial. The thought was gratifying, the sense of power tantalizing, but it was not the time.

He proceeded to drive to another health club, where he actually registered as a member under a false name, and re-stashed the duffel, applying his own tamper-proof lock to the locker. He'd then contacted the CIA operative, Mike Tate, and told him to meet him underneath the pier at 8:00 p.m., sharp, and to come with the denim jacket that Eppes had worn during the attack. Marsh was there now, waiting.

He saw the dark figure from his position behind a piling, and knew it was Tate. The man moved as though out for a stroll, but no one would be strolling under the pier at this time of night, no one else would move with the trained alertness, the confidence of a CIA field agent, other than Tate. Marsh spoke from the piling. "Did you bring the jacket?"

Tate whirled, trying to see him in the darkness, and Marsh said, "Relax. It's just me. Stork Hannah Five Zero Dog Niner." He spoke Tate's code phrase and stepped out, hands up, empty; a peaceful gesture.

Tate did relax, and moved closer. He lifted a bag, and pulled out a dark colored jacket to demonstrate, then stuffed it back inside. "Yeah, it's here."

Marsh could see his face now, faintly illuminated by pier lights reflecting off the water.

Tate looked from side to side; then eased next to him. "I have news. I spent some time at the hospital and got my hands on Dr. Janovic's surgery schedule for the next two weeks. Don Eppes is scheduled for surgery in four days – on Thursday."

Marsh stared at him. "What? Are you sure?"

Tate nodded. "What does this mean?"

Marsh stared at the water, his mind racing. "They must have found the wiring somehow."

Tate shot another glance around; then leaned closer. "I have to tell you, sir, I'm not quite getting all this. The whole Eppes thing – they were, and Don Eppes still is, surrounded by government agents. What is the agency involved in, that we can't clue those agents in? And then that memo came out about Joe Bishop – about you – I know you said not to worry; that it's a red herring and I should ignore it, but I keep feeling like I'm going to screw something up if I don't know what in the hell's going on."

His expression was still trusting, but uncertain. It didn't matter anyway; Tate had now seen his face, his time had come. It was a shame; he'd been quite useful. Marsh smiled, clapping a hand on Tate's shoulder. "Don't worry, Mike," he said, gripping his shoulder tightly as he brought the unregistered Beretta to gut level and angled it toward Tate's chest. "You don't need to know."

The sound of the silencer was lost in the noise of the surf. Tate gave him one agonized, startled look, his eyes bugging out of his head, his mouth gaping like a carp, and then toppled into the sand. Marsh stepped over towards him, and bent and retrieved the bag. He paused for a moment, his hands canvassing the jacket in the darkness through the plastic bag, and then grunted with satisfaction as he felt the outlines of the boosters in the pockets. Tate was laying in the sand on his side, still gasping like a landed fish, blood running from his mouth, and Marsh leaned over him. "You served your country well, agent," he said, almost affectionately, and then stood, and put a bullet in Tate's brain.

Still holding the warm gun, he turned and trudged through the pilings, carrying the denim jacket. As soon as it was cool enough, he would stash the firearm back in its holster. He'd intended to wipe the piece and toss it into the Pacific, but he suspected that he was now going to need it again. The news that they had found the wiring was startling, but he was still in control. Already, he could see the outlines of a new plan in his mind.

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Masters frowned. "We gave Charlie Eppes a cell phone?" He looked across the table at Rogan and Wilkes – the three of them were alone in the small secure office they'd been using for phone meetings with Washington. It was after eight p.m., and they ate takeout sandwiches as they talked.

Rogan chewed and nodded. "Conaghan thought he would be the one best able to keep his friends in Europe on that side of the pond. Our man said that Dr. Eppes agreed that it was in his friends' best interest if they didn't know what had happened until they returned home. He also agreed not to call his father until after his testimony. Besides, his conversations are being monitored – all calls go through our people. If he starts to say anything he shouldn't, they can cut off the conversation. I don't think he will, though."

"How's he doing?" asked Wilkes.

"Our people said he seemed pretty wiped out after the flight. Martha Bodman is going to call in with a progress report on him every morning."

Masters grunted. "Okay. On a different subject – I got hold of Agent Ziegler – he said the CIA operative they used out here to plant the cameras and help stage the attack was Mike Tate. He's the one who took Don Eppes' jacket from the scene. We just sent a man over to Tate's apartment to retrieve the jacket, and we're going to ask him to come in for a debriefing, make sure we get his side of the story." He looked at Wilkes. "How did Don Eppes do today?"

Wilkes shook his head and sighed. "Okay. We have a lot to undo, though; I don't know if I can reverse two weeks worth of electrically supplemented brainwashing in three days."

"You have to," replied Masters. "He needs some time to recover from the surgery before the hearings."

Wilkes nodded, although he still looked unconvinced. "We can continue psychotherapy sessions after the surgery while he's recuperating, but without the wiring, I won't be able to see how he's progressing. On top of that, the wiring allows me to apply current to reinforce positive reactions, and suppress the negative ones. Once it's out, his future progress will all depend on his own strength of will, and how much control he can wield over his own emotions."

Masters looked unsympathetic. "I realize it's not optimal, but we have to meet a hearing date." He took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed.

Wilkes shook his head. "It's too bad we can't tell him that his brother is still alive – I think it would give him more motivation. I'll be the first one to say that it's too risky, though – Don's still in a highly controllable state. I'll feel a lot better when we get our hands on that jacket and get it out of the area. If it's within a hundred miles of him, it can boost the signals sent by the controls – as long as those boosters are close enough, he can basically be controlled by someone anywhere in North America, provided they have the proper equipment."

Rogan frowned. "Who could possibly have that equipment? Wasn't Cypress Institute where the controls were located?"

"It is where the main controls are located, yes," replied Wilkes, "but we also have field controls built into vests – there were several of those units made, and I know not all of them are accounted for. Some vests are out, being used on other missions, but the only person who knew where all of them were was Allman. We think he had a log, or some method of keeping track of them, but no one has been able to find it."

"So it's conceivable that Bishop might have managed to get his hands on one," mused Rogan.

Wilkes nodded. "All the more reason to get the wiring out of Eppes' head, in a hurry. I don't understand why you guys waited this long."

"Conaghan wanted to wait a bit, to see if someone would try to contact him. We thought maybe we'd be able to get to him through Eppes."

Wilkes shook his head. "Trust me; the last thing you want is someone to contact him."

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That evening, Dr. Martin Janovic stepped out of his Lexus, and onto his driveway. It had been a long day and a late evening; he'd had to deal with a head trauma, and it was after nine. His wife had the Porsche and the Escalade pulled into the garage crookedly again, and instead of moving them, he decided to leave the Lexus in the driveway; he was too tired to deal with it tonight. It should be safe, he thought, after all, it was a gated development.

The manicured shrubs and cedar trees surrounding the drive gave him a sense of privacy and security as he headed around his car toward the garage entrance. The family room abutted the garage, and through the window spilled a warm light. In it, he could see his wife's blonde head, along with his five-year-old son's, bent over something – a book perhaps. The scene made him smile.

"Don't move."

The smile abruptly faded from Janovic's face at the low command, and the feel of cold steel pressed against his jaw line. A hand gripped the back of his collar, and he sensed the man's face just behind his ear. His attacker's next words came as a whisper. "Listen carefully. You have a surgery scheduled for Thursday, to remove wiring from Don Eppes' head. You are not, under any circumstances, to remove the wiring. You will proceed with the surgery, for appearances, but you will not take out the wiring. Do what you have to, to convince the agents that you have done it – give them a set of wiring for a Parkinson's surgery if they want hard evidence that it's out. I will be able to tell whether you have complied or not, so don't try anything. If you do not do as I say, they will pay." Janovic could see the arm stretch around him, the pistol gesturing toward his wife and son in the window. "You will say nothing of this, to anyone – and don't try, because I am monitoring you. I guarantee, if you do not comply; there is nothing that will keep your family safe from me. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Janovic forced the word out of a tight throat, his heart hammering. "I understand."

"Good. Stay right where you are for three minutes. Do not turn around. When three minutes is up, go on into the house." The pressure on his neck vanished, and Janovic stood, his neck hairs prickling. The man's arrival had been completely silent, and so was his departure. Janovic waited, counting his racing heartbeats for three minutes – four, just to be sure, and then on shaking legs, walked toward the house.

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Rogan and Masters were at breakfast the next morning when the call came. Masters was plowing into a big plate of eggs and sausage at the café around the corner from their hotel, as Rogan bit thoughtfully into a piece of wheat toast. He waved it at Masters. "Bill, that stuff's gonna kill you," he said.

Masters grunted around a mouthful of egg. "In this line of work, I'm not worried about that. I figure a bullet will get me first."

"Not me," said Rogan. "I'm staying lean and mean, so I can dodge 'em." His cell phone vibrated, and he pulled it out and put it to his ear. "Yeah." His normally mild expression changed, and he frowned at Masters meaningfully. "Okay, thanks for the info."

He snapped the phone shut and with a quick glance to make sure no one was too close, leaned forward and spoke softly. "That was A.D. Wright. He said LAPD found a man shot under a pier this morning – they just ID'd him. He showed up as Sam Peters – which is an alias for Mike Tate."

"Shit." Masters lowered his fork. "Bishop. He's here."

"That would be my guess. He also said they got a warrant for Tate's apartment this morning after the find, and went through it. No jacket."

"Which means it's either still hidden somewhere else, or Bishop has it." Masters considered for a moment. "Eppes is going to the hospital this afternoon for his pre-surgery testing. I think you and I ought to go along, just to be safe. If it is Bishop, he might not be after Eppes – he could just be cleaning up loose ends. After all, Bishop had contact with Tate. But better safe than sorry."

Rogan grunted. "You ought to take that stance with the eggs and sausage."

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Amita slid her cell phone shut with a furrowed brow, and headed over to the restaurant table, where her colleagues were gathered for a late dinner. The Geneva bistro was a laid-back establishment that boasted light casual fare and wireless connections, and was a favorite gathering place for the international crowd who had gathered to work on the start-up of the Large Hadron Collider. She slid into her seat next to Larry, who murmured, "And how is Charles?"

"Okay," she said quietly, a slight frown of worry puckering her forehead. "He sounds really tired. He said he was fighting a cold, and that they've been working really long hours."

Larry raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound convinced."

She looked at him, and smiled ruefully. "I think maybe he and Don are fighting. You know how out of sorts he gets when they argue. He wouldn't talk about him."

Larry sighed and shook his head. "Ah, what else is new? I've heard Charlie's side of their arguments more times than I care to count. They'll work it out, I'm sure."

Amita's smile faltered; and she tried to force it back to her face. "Yes, I'm sure you're right," she said, trying to fight down the little twinge of uneasiness in her gut. "They'll work it out."

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End Chapter 35


	36. Chapter 36

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 36**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all, including the very first from 'anonymous,' – I very much appreciated it. The agents decide to play some mind games of their own…_

……………………………………………

Rogan stuck his head into Janovic's office shortly after 1:00 that afternoon. "Hey doc. We brought your patient over for his pre-surgery blood work. Everything set for tomorrow?"

Janovic looked up, his face tense with forced composure. "Yes. Everything's set."

Rogan nodded. "Good. We'll all come up and see you after he's done, and go over the game plan." He ducked out, and Janovic stared at the door for a moment. Then he looked down, and for five minutes, did nothing but write, finishing a report. Finally, he slid it into a folder and stood, gathering that folder, along with others, and stepped out of the office, trying to look normal, unhurried.

As he walked through the halls, he kept coming up with reasons to turn, trying to get a look behind him. Finally satisfied that no one was tailing him, he made his way down to the lab. He could see Don Eppes through the window of the lab, seated, getting his blood taken, and outside the lab door, a large LAPD officer stood, along with Rogan, Masters and Wilkes. Janovic shot one last look around, then took a deep breath and moved toward them. "We need to talk," he murmured, then walked past them, down the hallway.

The threesome exchanged a perturbed glance, then Masters said to the officer, "Keep an eye on Eppes," and they followed Janovic down the hall to a small office. As they stepped inside and closed the door, Janovic faced them. "I guess this is as safe a place as any," he said. "I don't think he'd have bugged every office in the hospital."

"What are you talking about?" Masters said, staring at him.

"A man ambushed me in my driveway last night." Janovic was pale; his voice shook slightly. "He came up from behind, put a gun to my neck, and told me not to move. He told me to fake the surgery on the Thursday, and to leave the wiring in Eppes' head."

"Bishop," breathed Rogan.

"How in the hell did he know about the surgery?" scowled Masters.

"I don't know. I think my office might be bugged or something. That's why I came down here. Anyway, he threatened my family if I didn't comply – he said he'd be able to tell if I took the wiring out."

Wilkes nodded. "If he had a monitoring and control device, he'd know. He must have gotten his hands on one of the vests. The graphs that monitor emotions and reactions will go blank once the wires are removed."

"I have to leave the wiring in there," Janovic said. "I can't take the chance."

Rogan and Masters looked at Wilkes. "Maybe this is our opportunity. Maybe we can get to Bishop through Eppes," said Rogan. "Is there a way to make it look like the monitoring equipment is working, and still disconnect the wiring? We could leave the ear module in place so that Eppes could hear Bishop's instructions. He could play along, and relay Bishop's plans to us."

"The ear module could stay connected, that's true," said Wilkes, thoughtfully. "Its only purpose is to receive voice commands. However, there's no real way to make the monitor work unless the wiring is still in place. There might be a way to modify it though, to weaken the signals being sent to the wiring. If you were able to send a lower level of current, you could induce a lower level of emotion that Eppes could control. Maybe there's some way to make a more harmless emotion look like more on the monitors. Give me a minute – I'm going to call one of our equipment experts." He stepped aside into a corner and pulled out his cell phone, and the others looked at each other.

Masters spoke first, to Janovic. "We were thinking of releasing Eppes, as a matter of fact. We were going to spin the story that he had a blood clot in his brain from the car accident, which was making him act irrationally. The official story for those who might ask questions, was going to be that your surgery tomorrow was being done in order to remove the clot, and he was no longer considered a threat to society. It's not much of a story, but we only need to hold off questions for a couple more weeks, until the hearings." He shook his head and looked at Rogan. "We might have to rethink that now."

They waited another moment while Wilkes finished his call and turned to face them as he snapped his phone shut. "He says it can be done. We can attach small devices to the leads where they attach to the battery packs near his collarbone. One type of device will amplify the signal going out to Bishop's monitor, and the other will reduce the signal coming in to Eppes' brain. Eppes will have to deal with some emotional manipulation, but it should be at a low enough level that he can handle it. The boosters can amplify the activity in his brain, making it look much more severe on Bishop's monitor – Eppes would be feeling mere irritation, for example, but on Bishop's monitor it would register as rage. I told him to get the devices on an agency jet – they'll be here tonight. He's sending a diagram of which leads to attach them to, and how." He raised an eyebrow in Janovic's direction to ascertain that he understood, and Janovic nodded.

Masters looked thoughtful. "If Bishop really is intent on controlling Eppes, he'd want to get him the denim jacket. Maybe we _should_ still release Eppes – it will give Bishop a chance to do that. Maybe we can nab Bishop when he tries to deliver it."

"It would give us a shot at getting to him," said Wilkes. "Of course, that is providing that Eppes is willing to take the risk."

"So, you've confirmed, I don't need to remove the wiring?" Janovic said, looking from one to another, anxiously.

"As long as Eppes agrees, no. We'll have you attach the devices instead," affirmed Masters. "The man who threatened you won't be able to tell the difference – he'll think you left the wiring in as he instructed; he won't know we've modified it. You should still make arrangements to get your family out of here – we can help with that. We'll send you all on a vacation, just to be safe, as soon as your fake surgery is over."

Janovic took a deep, shaky breath. "After this, I _need_ a vacation. But what if Eppes says no?"

"Why don't we ask him?" said Rogan, as he headed toward the door. "I'll be right back."

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As the lab door opened, Don's downturned eyes caught sight of a pair of familiar shoes, and he looked up in surprise. "Dad!"

Alan smiled faintly; it was laced with sadness, but it did bear resemblance to a smile. "I remembered them telling me you would be here this afternoon," he said. "I thought it might be a nicer place to visit you than the prison." He drank in the sight of his older son. He was thinner, his face drawn by sadness, but he was his son, and Alan felt an intense need to be with one of them, at least.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the LAPD officer, a huge black man with a frightening scowl. "No fraternizing with the prisoner."

"It's okay," came a voice behind them, and the group turned to see Brian Rogan striding towards them. He nodded at Alan. "We need the prisoner down the hall." He cocked his head, considering. "Come to think of it, Alan, this might affect you too. You might as well come along." He looked at the officer. "Go get a coffee, and come back in ten. We'll be down the hall in that office."

A few moments later, Don sat facing Rogan and Masters in the small office, with Alan seated right behind him. Janovic hunkered in the corner, and Wilkes was on their right, just finishing his explanation. "So, Don, what we need to know is, are you willing to leave the wiring in, in the hopes that Bishop might try to contact you?"

Before Don could respond, Alan spoke sharply. "Use my one remaining son as bait? I don't think so."

"It's not your decision, Mr. Eppes," Rogan said gently. "It's Don's."

"Then why did you ask me to come down?" snapped Alan.

"Because we're thinking of releasing Don after the surgery. We'd like to use the Craftsman as a safe house again, for both of you. Now that we know that Bishop is in the area, and he knows that we know about the brainwashing, we need to take precautions for you too, sir. Even if we didn't release Don, we'd need to put a detail on to protect you – otherwise Bishop might try to use you to get to Don. We needed to inform you of that, and make sure that it would be all right for Don to stay there with you."

"All right?" Alan sputtered. "Of course-,"

"Wait, Dad," Don interjected. His voice was quiet, tired, and he looked at Wilkes. "Is it safe? I mean – am I safe for him to be around?"

Wilkes nodded. "Yes. If your brother were there, it would be a different story, but you should pose no danger to others. Of course, if Bishop tries to contact you and give you orders, you need to tell us immediately."

"Can't he be allowed home, and still have the surgery to remove the wiring?" asked Alan.

"He can," replied Masters, speaking for the first time since they entered the room. He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Don's. "It's your decision, Eppes. But hell, don't you want to nail the bastard who made you do that to Charlie?"

Don's eyes flared, and hardened. "Damn right I do. Leave the wires in."

"Don -," began Alan, in an admonishing tone, but Don cut him off, his voice steely.

"Dad – I have to do this. I need to see the people who did this put away – for Charlie, and for myself."

Alan stared back at him for a moment; then sighed resignedly. "Very well. I suppose you're right." He looked at Masters, his jaw jutting pugnaciously. "But you'd better make damn sure nothing happens to him, or I'll come find you myself."

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Charlie sat on his bed with shaking legs, and eased himself back against the pillow. He'd made it back into bed himself this time – a step in the right direction. Dr. Martha Bodman eyed him appraisingly. "That was much better," she said. "You're getting some strength back." She inserted the thermometer into his ear, and clucked approvingly. "Fever's gone, too. What do you want for lunch? Soup? I have some casserole left from last night."

"Soup's fine," said Charlie, dispiritedly, his eyes on his blanketed knees.

Martha gazed at him for a moment. "Was my casserole that bad?"

Charlie looked up at her, startled. "Oh, no! It was good." His eyes flitted away. "I just don't have much of an appetite."

Silence fell and stretched into discomfort, and Charlie glanced sideways at her. As their eyes met, she said, "I have the proper clearances, you know. I also have a degree in psychology. You can tell me anything you want – it's allowed. I aim to heal my patients as much as possible before they leave, and that includes psychological healing. If getting some of this off your chest will help, then by all means feel free to do so."

Charlie was silent, and Martha strolled to the end of his bed. "I know you were the victim of a vicious knife attack. They told me that much, although I would have figured it out when I tended your injuries, anyway." She paced back to the side of the bed, and gazed at him with sympathy. "You're obviously struggling with some significant emotional distress, Charlie. Was someone you love hurt in the attack? It might help to talk about it. If you're concerned about my clearances, you can call first."

Charlie closed his eyes, his face awash with pain. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just can't right now."

Martha regarded him for a moment; then nodded. "That's okay – take your time. I'll go get your soup."

In the end, it was the soup that broke him, once again. Olfactory memory was primal, all-powerful – the scent reminded him of long ago, and Martha, of his mother. After two spoonfuls, which he managed himself this time; he had tears in his eyes again.

Martha's mouth twisted wryly. "You didn't eat my casserole, and my soup makes you cry. I didn't realize that I was such a failure in the kitchen."

Charlie swallowed. "You're not. It's actually very good – it reminds me of my mother."

He stared at the spoon in his hand with a sad, far-away look.

"Was she hurt in your attack?"

Charlie looked up at her, surprised. "No, no. She passed away a little over five years ago." He looked down again and sighed. "No, it reminds me of happier times, when I was younger."

Martha snorted softly. "And you're so old, now."

Charlie flushed a bit. "I mean, when I was really young, a kid." His gaze drifted away again. "It actually made me think of my brother." His eyes closed again, his face suddenly crumpled, and he bowed his head. "I loved him so much," he whispered, his eyes shut tightly, fighting tears.

Martha was silent for a moment. "Was he also involved in the attack?" Charlie nodded, his head still down, and she asked gently, "I take it he was killed?"

To her surprise, Charlie shook his head, and ran a hand across his eyes. "No," he whispered. "He tried to kill me."

A look of shock washed over Martha's face, and she stared at him, nonplussed. For the first time in recent memory, she was at a loss for words.

"I pushed him too hard – got him to take an assignment he didn't want to take, and I think he just snapped. He hates me." Charlie's voice was low, and shaking with grief. "And the worst part of it is; I think he always has, and I never knew." He looked up at her with sudden intensity. "He's a good man," he said, with emotion, as if she had argued otherwise. "The problem must have been at least partly mine. I know I can be pushy -," His face fell, and he looked down again. "I just didn't realize that I was so obnoxious – he hid it all those years, put up with me all that time, and I was clueless. I'm not the greatest, socially – I wish someone had had the guts to tell me, I could have worked on it…," His voice trailed away, wistfully.

Martha shook her head slowly, incredulously, still staring at him. "Charlie, I can't imagine what you're talking about. You've been nothing but polite and cooperative since you've been here. He stabbed you, for God's sake – and you think it's your fault?"

"You don't understand," Charlie said roughly. "This was totally out of character for him. He had to have gone over an edge somehow – and I could tell from some of the things he said, that it was me who pushed him there." His voice shook. "Now he's in prison – his career, his life ruined – because of me."

He reached out a trembling hand and grasped his spoon, stirring his soup abstractedly, in a vague disjointed attempt at normality. The steam from his bowl rose in the air like ghosts of the past, and vanished, as if it had never existed.

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End Chapter 36

_A/N: Next post on my usual Tuesday..._


	37. Chapter 37

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 37**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. _

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"Relax, Dad, it'll be okay," said Don quietly as they waited for him to be called to be prepped for surgery. They were in a waiting area for pre-surgery patients, but had a segment of seating to themselves – it was early, and the waiting areas hadn't begun to fill with patients and their families yet. There were two agents with them, but they were stationed down the hallway, within view, but not within earshot.

Janovic had decided to move Don's surgery prior to others he had that day; it was no secret to the group that he was nervous, and anxious to finish the surgery and get his family out of town. Don eyed Alan, who sat twisting his hands fretfully. "He's not even touching my head, Dad – the batteries are just inside my collarbones, remember? All he has to do is make a small incision on either side, and attach the devices to the wires just above the batteries."

Alan sighed, and glanced behind him before he spoke. "I know. I just would feel better if all of it was coming out, altogether."

"They're going to have people with us, Dad, twenty-four seven."

"They had people on you and Charlie, too," Alan retorted, then stopped, aghast, as he saw the look on Don's face. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean – it's just they should have been able to stop you, and they didn't."

Don's face was dark with self-recrimination. "I should have been able to stop myself."

"You know that's not true," said Alan, with quiet intensity. "Haven't they proven that to you yet?"

Don sat silently for a moment, then pulled a folded paper out of his jeans pocket, and carefully opened it. He looked at it for a moment; then passed it to Alan. "That's their profile of my mind – how I perceived Charlie before they began the brainwashing. If you look under each bar, it tells you what it is. I had negative thoughts about him, Dad, before they even started – envy, and that short bar over hate means there was some dislike."

"A tiny bit," agreed Alan. He was looking at the chart with interest, and seemed unperturbed by the negative bars. "Look at the large bar over 'love,'" he pointed out. "It far outweighs the other side. And respect, and trust." He looked up at Don. "It's very natural to have some negative feelings toward one's family members, Donnie, and I have to believe even more so when siblings are involved. I imagine Charlie's chart might have looked very much like yours."

Don snorted in disbelief. "What would he have to be envious about? He was the genius."

Alan smiled wistfully. "He looked up to you, Don, in every other way. You were the sports star, the popular one, and when he started working with you, he always felt keenly that you were in charge. He told me once that you 'let him' work for you, as if he felt you were doing him a favor. If you don't think he was ever envious of you, you're wrong."

He handed the paper back, and Don stared at it for a moment. "Anyway, this isn't even what my profile looks like, now. It's worse," he said quietly. "Wilkes is trying to get me back to this point. He's trying to undo the brainwashing, and he's using this as a baseline to measure my progress."

"Oh," asked Alan faintly. "And how is it going?"

Don raised haunted eyes to his. "Not good enough."

Alan stared back, and for just a moment, could see the depths of hell in his son's eyes. "It's only been three days," he said, gently. "You must have made some progress."

"Yeah," conceded Don, his shoulders drooping. "Some." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if praying for guidance from above, then opened them and looked down, his face full of agony. "I still can't believe he's gone," he said, his voice cracking. "It's like a bad dream. I keep waking up, thinking he'll be there…" His voice thickened, and Alan, through a blurry wall of moisture, could see tears forming in Don's eyes.

"Don't think about it right now," Alan urged. "It's not a good time. You shouldn't go into surgery like this."

"Don Eppes!" A woman's voice came from across the room; she was holding a clipboard, standing at the door to the preparation area for surgery and Don straightened and stood, running a hand over his face. Alan stood with him and gave him a quick hug, and watched, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with helplessness, as Don walked toward the door.

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J. Scott Marsh knew when Don Eppes entered surgery, and he knew when he awoke. The portable vest monitor told him.

He had no idea of the timing of the surgery – Tate had just told him the day, so he took up a post outside the hospital entrance two hours before scheduled surgeries generally began, which he'd determined by a phone call to the hospital information desk. To his surprise, he'd only been there five minutes when he saw Don Eppes and his father arrive. They were driven by two agents, dropped off at the door, and accompanied by one of them inside. The other went to park the car, and entered a few minutes later. Marsh knew that they were probably there for protection, not to prevent Don Eppes' escape. If they knew about the wiring, then they knew that the attack hadn't been Eppes' fault. Marsh surmised that following the surgery, Don Eppes would be released, a free man.

Not that Marsh could take advantage of Eppes' status, at the moment. He had originally only planned to stay in L.A. long enough to take care of Tate and get his hands on the denim jacket, and his flight back left that evening, via Vegas. His manager was expecting him back at the office, and Marsh didn't want to arouse suspicion. Plus, he had two weeks to take care of Eppes before the hearings – there was no rush. Therefore, in spite of the news that the government now knew about the wiring in Eppes' head, he'd decided to stick to his travel plans. When he got back to D.C., he would work a few days, then ask for leave to visit his sister again – he would make the excuse that she was starting chemo, and needed a family member with her. During his brief return to Washington, he would formulate his plan, and when he returned to L.A., he would lure Eppes out, away from his protection, and finish him. The government already had no witness for the weapons smuggling charges, with Charles Eppes gone. Without Don Eppes as a witness to the drug deals, the Montreaux cousins would go free, and so would end the last threat to Marsh's freedom. Once Jack and Pierre Montreaux were liberated they would have no reason to deal, no reason to turn his name over to the authorities, even if they were foolhardy enough to do so. Marsh had actually considered trying to get to them, too, but had finally deemed it too risky. It would be easier to get rid of Eppes, and remove any reason for them to talk.

His thoughts turned to his flight that evening. He would stop in Vegas and actually see his sister, and tell her that if anyone called and asked if she had cancer, she should tell them 'yes.' She'd covered for him before, on other, legitimate missions – she doted on him, and was completely impressed by his occupation. It wasn't proper for him to ask, but she didn't know that; she was excited to be a part of the action, to play at spy, no matter how minimal her involvement. Yes, she'd lie for him. After a two-hour layover, he would fly home to Washington. Really, the only thing he had to do before he left was to make sure Dr. Janovic had kept his word, and left the wiring intact in Don Eppes' brain.

Therefore, he sat outside the hospital with the monitoring vest, and watched as the bars went completely flat. They were never flat, he'd found, even when Eppes was sleeping, so that had to mean that Eppes was under sedation. After an appropriate amount of time, about an hour and a half, they came to life again, flickering at first, then stronger. Eppes was undoubtedly regaining consciousness after the fake procedure. It was fascinating to watch them, Marsh had found; he'd stared at the monitor for an hour last night. The bars had been primarily neutral, but they were constantly changing, at least slightly, growing and receding, brightly colored evidence of Don Eppes' thoughts and feelings.

Marsh grunted in approval now as Don Eppes regained consciousness, and the bars started to move again. That movement meant the wiring was still in his head – if the doctor had removed it, the bars would have remained flat. Janovic had done what he'd been told. Now Marsh only had two more things to do before he caught his flight. One was to return the control vest to the gym locker, to wait for his return in a few days. He would hold onto it for the rest of the day, and make sure that the bars were still active at the end before he put it away. The other was to leave the denim jacket with a mail service, packaged and addressed to Don Eppes, with instructions to hold it until he gave them word to send it.

He took one more glance at the monitor screen in the vest, then flipped it shut, closed the pocket, and put his car into gear. The sun was out; after he dropped the denim vest at the mail service, perhaps he would drive down to Santa Monica Pier, and go for a nice walk.

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Don was in the hospital for two days – longer than necessary for the surgery he'd had, but an appropriate recovery time for his fake surgery – the supposed procedure to remove the wires from his head. They had to make it look good, Masters said, so, even though the surgery to implant the devices in his collarbone could have been done as an outpatient, Don was forced to stay for forty-eight hours. He spent the time working with Wilkes, trying to undo the changes to his brain that had occurred as a result of the brainwashing. Dr. Janovic had even faked some sutures, covered with Steri-strips, at the sites of his original incisions. They still weren't sure how Bishop had found out about the surgery, and so they were taking every effort to make the operation appear real, in case Bishop had a spy inside the hospital.

One unfortunate effect of the surgery was that the new devices modified the signals that were sent to Wilkes' monitoring equipment. The new readings were higher, amplified by the devices, and they could no longer compare those readings to Don's original perception of Charlie. Still, he kept the printout, creased and dog-eared as it was. It was his link to the past, before all this had started. As soon as they captured Bishop and he could remove the wiring for good, he hoped the readings would at least somewhat match the paper that he now kept in a small, clear plastic envelope on a string. He had taken to wearing it over his heart, under his clothing, as a reminder. Wilkes told him that gesture in itself was a good sign. As he changed out of his hospital gown into his clothing the morning of his release, he made sure it was there, hanging under a shirt that was now a little too loose.

The ride to the Craftsman with Alan and their two bodyguards made him wish he had a monitor – with the tides of emotions running through him, he was sure the bars would be putting on quite a show. The Craftsman was more than just a house – it was his boyhood home, Charlie's house, and filled with memories of his brother. He couldn't wait to get there, and dreaded it at the same time. One look at Alan's face, who was seated in the rear seat of the vehicle beside him, convinced him that at least one good thing would come of it – his father, he knew, was pathetically grateful to have him come home. The chance for them to be together would provide healing for both of them.

So, as he stepped through the front door of the house with his father – mercifully, by themselves; their surveillance was stationed discreetly outside – he felt sadness, nostalgia, but also a sense of purpose. He could support his father through this ordeal, at least. He walked slowly through the living room, Alan hovering beside him, looking around the room as if with new eyes. He could feel something deep inside, something uncomfortable and so powerful it didn't even have a name, something too strong to recognize, and he tried desperately to divert his attention, hoping it would go away, his gaze wandering, finally lighting on a lacquered box on the coffee table. He bent to touch it. "What's that? It wasn't here-," his eyes fell on the small gold plaque on the side and read, '_Charles Eppes_.' He jerked his hand back as if stung. "Oh, God."

"I didn't get a chance to get the dates engraved on it yet -," Alan began sadly, but Don barely heard him. In the prison, in the hospital, he had felt grief, but it was dampened by the different surroundings, distorted by the reality of adjusting to life in a strange setting, his memories warped by what had been done to his brain. Here, at home, he could feel Charlie's presence, and he now recognized that the strange feeling deep inside was grief – a wall of blinding, excruciating grief. The box was final evidence – he would never walk in this house and see the dark curly head bent over his latest analysis, never see the quiet smile that always welcomed him when Charlie would look up and see him, pleasure and warmth in his dark eyes…

He was barely conscious of stumbling backwards, a ragged, broken, senseless exclamation coming from his throat as he reeled and ran from the room, caroming off the kitchen doorway in his desperate attempt to flee the pain. He staggered outside, starting to head toward the yard when the sight of the startled agent on guard stopped him, and he veered instead for the privacy of the garage and stumbled inside, lurching into a chalkboard in the darkness. It came crashing down in a cloud of chalk dust, and as the familiar smell hit his senses, he gasped, gulping a great lungful of air, feeling as though his chest would explode with agony. Charlie was everywhere, in the house, in the scent of the chalk…

The garage light flicked on and he could hear his father's voice beside him as the gasps segued into an unearthly moan. He doubled over as if in pain, then Alan's arms were around him, supporting him as he sank to his knees, pulling his head to his chest as Don broke. He'd always kept tight rein on his emotions, and even now, in pain too deep to describe, he held himself rigid in his father's arms, his tears running hot down his face, silently fighting the crushing sorrow.

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Late that night Rogan, Masters, and Wilkes met with CIA Director Conaghan, and FBI Director Dave Maxwell in their tiny conference room, via phone.

"I don't like it," Masters said. "We know Bishop is in L.A. – it's been three days since they found Tate. I would think he would have tried to contact Eppes by now."

"Maybe he just doesn't have the controller," said Maxwell.

"Maybe, but the fact that the denim jacket can't be found is suspicious. If he has the jacket, I'm betting he has a controller."

"What is the possibility that Eppes is lying to us, and he_ has_ been contacted? Maybe he's being manipulated already," growled Conaghan.

"I'd say that's highly unlikely," said Wilkes. "It's not impossible – with those new devices in his head, I'm having a tough time getting true readings as to what's going on in there. But I don't see any evidence that he's trying to hide anything in our sessions."

There was silence for a moment; then Conaghan spoke. "You're right, Bill, I don't like it either. We need to get the hearings moved up to this Monday, instead of next. Is Charlie Eppes strong enough to testify yet?"

"When I talked to Dr. Bodman this morning, she said he's up and moving around the cabin. I can hook her into the conversation, if you want."

"Do that, we'll wait."

Rogan punched at the phone, and a ring tone was heard over the speaker. Martha's voice came on the line. "Yes?"

"This is the Save the Owl foundation. Is this client 547?"

"No, it's client 929. What can I do for you, Mr. Rogan?" she asked pleasantly.

"Dr. Bodman, I have you on speaker with our usual crew, plus Directors Conaghan and Maxwell."

"Hello, gentlemen."

Conaghan spoke. "Good evening doctor. We're sorry to disturb you, but we have a question. We'd like to know if Dr. Eppes would be strong enough to testify at the hearings next week."

"Next week? Oh, no, I don't think so. He's still very weak." She sounded oddly defensive. "I thought the hearings weren't until the following week."

"You said this morning he was getting around the cabin," Rogan reminded her.

"Yes, he is, but -,"

"Tell me, doctor," said Conaghan, "If he were in a hospital, would you have discharged him by now?"

Her voice sounded disapproving. "I probably would have been forced to, with the insurance companies the way they are. But I would have discharged him to his home, and prescribed rest, and I wouldn't have done it any sooner than today. If you absolutely must, he can be ready in four days – by Wednesday. That's provided you don't need him more than a couple of days. As soon as he's done, he should be taken home to rest."

"Good. We'll arrange to fly him out on Tuesday, for a Wednesday court appearance. The sooner he testifies, the sooner he'll be out of danger."

"He's in no danger here," she retorted.

"Really, doctor, don't you think he'd rather have this over with, and be recuperating at home?"

She was silent, and Conaghan took her silence as acquiescence. "Very well. We'll have a chopper out there Tuesday morning. Thank you, doctor – I'm sure he wouldn't be doing so well if it weren't for your exceptional care."

Martha Bodman murmured a polite 'good-bye,' but Rogan was sure he heard a skeptical sniff as the line disconnected. "I'll make some calls, and try to pull some strings to start this on Wednesday," said Conaghan. "The grand jury was selected this week; we can have them report a few days early. You need to make arrangement to fly Don Eppes out."

"Wait." Wilkes spoke up for the first time. "They're not going to be together, right?"

Masters looked at him. "Why? Don't you think Don's ready?"

Wilkes shrugged, a gesture of exasperation. "I told you, I'm not sure what his status is now – the devices alter his responses. He's made progress, but enough? I don't know."

"It doesn't matter," said Conaghan. "We can keep them apart – they won't even know the other is there. We won't take any chances until after Charlie testifies."

"Oh, and then it's okay, whether Don Eppes is ready or not?" shot back Masters.

"I didn't say that," said Conaghan quietly, in a tone that suggested that Masters had better remember to whom he was talking. Masters shut his mouth uncomfortably, and earned a grin from Rogan. "As I was saying," continued Conaghan, "it's an easy matter to keep them apart. The hearings cover two different topics – we'll bring Don in to testify about the drug dealings, and Charlie in separately to testify to the treason charges, the weapons smuggling. Even if they have to appear on the same day, the courthouse is large enough that we can keep them apart. I'll make arrangements for Dr. Eppes – you, agents, are responsible for getting Don there safely. That's all."

The line disconnected, and Rogan's grin widened as he looked at Masters. "I told you that you were turning into an old softie."

Wilkes was grinning now too, and Masters scowled at them both. "Shut the hell up."

He got up and walked out of the room, and Rogan followed, shooting Wilkes a conspiratorial wink.

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End Chapter 37

_A/N: Hmm, everyone seems to be converging on Washington, D.C. …_


	38. Chapter 38

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 38**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks again for the reviews - you've earned yourselves a bonus chapter. Someone asked who knows about Marsh's involvement in what happened to Don. Two people did, Dr. Allman and Joe Bishop, and they're both dead. There is only one other person who can link Marsh to the weapons deal (and therefore by extension, to what happened to Don), and that person is, of course, Charlie. _

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Tuesday morning, Don zipped his case and carted the bag downstairs. He'd packed lightly; they assured him that his part of the grand jury hearings would only take a day, two at the most. As he shuffled into the kitchen, where Alan was puttering with breakfast, Don couldn't help but wonder what else the prosecution could be bringing against the Montreaux brothers, other than his drug testimony, and the little he knew about Charlie's piece of the assignment. He'd been told the primary reason for the hearings was to determine if there was enough evidence to try them for treason, but much of that evidence was gone. The Clemenceaus were dead, and Charlie…

He took a swallow of the hot coffee his father had set in front of him, trying to pretend the heat caused the moisture in his eyes. Then it occurred to him. Of course – the flash drive. Even if they didn't have Charlie, they at least had what he had loaded on the flash drive. Of course, Montreaux's lawyers could claim it had been fabricated. Without Charlie there to testify, it would lack a lot of punch. There were the two Iranians also, who had been taken into custody at the border. The only real thing the government had on them would have been Charlie's identification. Oh, they had evidence that the Iranians had been in New Orleans – hotel accommodations under their aliases, but that was all, now. No one else had actually seen them with Montreaux, other than Charlie. Khalid, their leader, had most probably escaped the country, and then there was the nameless American, who Charlie had observed, but who they had yet to identify. They had nothing to go on there but a rather generic pencil sketch of the man, generated by Charlie and the artist while Don had been recovering in Louisiana. Everything tied back to Charlie, and without him, the case had gaping holes that were going to be difficult to plug.

"Do me a favor," said Alan, resting a hand on his shoulder and breaking him out of his reverie. "Come back safely, okay?"

Don shot him a sad smile, and patted his hand. "I will, Dad, don't worry. This will only take a couple of days."

Alan sighed, and set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. "I hate the thought of you going all the way out to D.C." The doorbell rang, and he frowned. "They're here already, and you haven't eaten anything yet. You tuck into those eggs, and I'll hold them off."

Don obliged, wolfing down a bite of eggs then shoveling in another, when a female voice from the other room made him choke, causing him to spew eggs back out in a pale yellow spray. He wiped his face hastily with a napkin, bolted from his chair, pushed through the doorway, and paused. Robin. She stood there in the living room, staring at him, Brian Rogan behind her.

"We finally had to break down and tell her," Rogan said. "She was threatening to spill the story to the press that something fishy was going on if we didn't let her see you." He grinned at her ruefully. "She's one tough lady. Anyway, we've got a little time, if you two want to talk before you go."

"Yeah," Don found his voice. "Yeah, okay." He sounded and felt uncertain, inept. He wondered what she was thinking. God, maybe she was here to break off the relationship. They said they had told her what happened, but it was a lot to deal with – knowing that your significant other was a murderer, even if he had been manipulated.

She nodded at Alan, and looked at Don, her expression unreadable. "Maybe we can take a walk in the yard?" she suggested, and Don nodded dumbly, and found his feet.

"Sure."

He somehow found the presence of mind to grab his jacket. He slipped it on, leaving it unzipped, and they went out through the kitchen into the back yard. A guard slid through the shrubbery and moved toward the front of the house to give them privacy. She looked up at him, and reached a hand tentatively toward his chest. "Let me see."

He stared at her for a moment; then realized she meant his surgery sites, near his collarbones. He pulled open his shirt to reveal the gauze bandage on his left side, and she traced the skin underneath it, gently, with a forefinger, then withdrew her hand, and looked up at him. "I'm sorry – I had to look. It all sounded so crazy."

His mouth quirked a little, sadly. "I thought _I_ was crazy, for a while – until they told me."

She frowned a little. "When will they take the wiring out?"

"We're not sure yet. They left it in because they thought the guy who masterminded it was in the area – they thought he'd try to contact me. Unfortunately, he hasn't yet."

She looked alarmed. "After all of this, they're using you to get to him?" Anger flashed in her eyes. "Haven't they done enough?"

The expression in his own eyes hardened. "I agreed to it – I want to get the bastard. It's the least I can do for Charlie."

Her face softened, and filled with sympathy. "I guess I can understand that. Don, I'm so sorry – I know what Charlie meant to you." She watched as he looked away, emotion stealing over his features, and said, "Come here." She held out her arms, and he stepped into them, embracing her tightly, hiding his face against her hair, fighting tears that threatened to rise yet again. "I'm here," she whispered in his ear. "I'm not going anywhere. Do what you have to do, and I'll be waiting for you to come back."

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Bill Masters waited at the bottom of the jet steps while the frail-looking figure descended onto the frigid tarmac, moving slowly, his face pinched with exhaustion and the vestiges of pain. They'd choppered Dr. Eppes out of the Bodmans' mountain retreat to Denver, and then he'd boarded a private jet to take him to Washington, D.C., where Masters met him at the airport. He and Rogan had flown in hours earlier with Don Eppes. It was unseasonably cold even for the end of February, and he could see the young man shivering inside his wool coat, which was too big for him. The Agency had picked up clothes for him, a coat, a suit for the courtroom, and had guessed at his size. Not only had they guessed the size to be a little too large to be conservative, but the professor had dropped a good deal of weight – he looked like a shadow of his former self. Masters was reasonably certain that nothing they bought him was going to fit well.

The wind gusted, making the professor stagger as they walked toward the car parked outside the hangar, and Masters put up a hand behind him instinctively, preparing to support him if he fell. They walked the entire distance to the car that way, Masters' hand hovering behind his back, as if raised in a gesture of apology.

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Wednesday morning, J. Scott Marsh looked up from his desk at a knock on his door. At his invitation, it opened, and his superior, Mark Lewis, stuck his head in the opening. "Scott – you're leaving this afternoon for Vegas to help your sister, right? I have to head over to the courthouse; I just wanted to wish you luck. I'll see you when you get back."

"Thanks," murmured Marsh. His expression turned curious. "Courthouse – what's happening there?"

Lewis took a quick look behind him, and then stepped in and closed the door. "Conaghan asked me to attend with him – it's a grand jury hearing for treason. A couple of guys from your neck of the woods, actually – New Orleans - Jack and Pierre Montreaux. Keep it quiet – we're trying to keep this low profile, until the hearing is done. Remember the memo we sent out about Bishop? I don't know all the particulars yet, but he's tied up with this somehow."

Marsh had frozen, staring at him, his gut in a tailspin. '_Next week_,' he thought desperately, '_the hearings were supposed to be next week!_' His brain flipped like a cat, landing on its feet. No way could he take Eppes out now – he'd be under tight security here, plus the vest and the denim jacket were in L.A. He just had to hope that the Montreaux cousins had the sense to keep their mouths shut. This was just a grand jury hearing, after all, not the trial. If they kept their heads, he could still take Don Eppes out after the hearing, prior to the trial. There must be some way to get them a message…

Lewis was staring at him oddly. "What's wrong?"

Marsh realized that he needed to do some damage control. Now that Lewis had given him the names, he had to own up to knowing Jack Montreaux – if he didn't and it came out later; he'd incriminate himself by omission. "It's just those names… I was trying to think where I'd heard them before. I think I went to school with a guy named Montreaux – they called him Johnny, when he was younger. I think he changed it to Jack as he got older, but I didn't hang out with him much, then. You know, I bet it's the same guy. How many Jack Montreauxs could there be?" He made a face. "Never liked him much. And you say he's on trial for treason?"

Lewis nodded. "Yeah. I don't suppose you have any dirt on him?"

Marsh shook his head. "Nah – the last time I saw him was years ago. Man, that's strange. Huh. Johnny Montreaux."

Lewis shook his head and smiled as he turned toward the door. "Small world. I've got to go – good luck with your sister. I'll let you know how the hearing turns out."

He shut the door behind him, and Marsh sat, drumming his fingers on the desktop. He was going to need to cancel his trip now, because he'd need the time off for later, when Eppes got back to L.A. He could tell Lewis that his sister's blood count was off, and they were postponing the chemo until it improved.

He nodded to himself, and reached for the phone to call the airline, when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number, then frowned sharply and rose as he answered.

"I told you not to call me here. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll call you back."

A little over fifteen minutes later, he was in his car, and already a few blocks from Langley. His cell phone was secure, its transmissions scrambled for eavesdroppers, but he was not about to take this call at CIA headquarters. "Okay, I'm here."

Khalid's voice came over the line. Judging by the country code in the phone's display, he was still in Iran. "We have a problem. The hearings are proceeding earlier than planned."

"I know, I just heard," replied Marsh irritably. "What do you care? You got out of the country, anyway."

Khalid hissed with anger. "I have two men going through those hearings, and if my name comes out, I will be useless. My effectiveness depends on being able to travel to Western countries, and if they identify me when I am in one of them, I can be extradited to the U.S. I cannot be stuck here in Iran and still achieve our goals, which would mean no deal, and no money for you."

"Look, everyone needs to relax," said Marsh. "This is just a hearing. Even if they bind them over for trial, it will take a while to get it scheduled – probably months. I'll have plenty of time to take Don Eppes out before then. If we can get a word to them somehow, and tell the Montreaux cousins and your men not to panic…maybe through their lawyers somehow."

"My men will not talk; they know their duty. I have already had the Montreaux lawyer checked – he cannot be trusted with information like this. I have a man, however, on the inside, a guard. He is not assigned to their cellblock, but he can make an excuse to go there. I will have my man give them word."

"Good." Marsh's gut, in a knot since Lewis' revelation, flooded with relief. "That's good. Tell them to hang tight, and I'll take care of things before the trial. We'll get through this."

"When you are finished with this deal, we need to talk. I want to find another source to handle the weapons equipment, formulate another plan."

"Okay. I'll talk to you soon," grunted Marsh. He flipped his phone shut, and took a deep breath. No need to panic. No need at all. He swung his car through a drive-through for a coffee, and headed back to Langley.

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Charlie sank wearily onto the hotel bed Wednesday evening, limbs trembling with fatigue. A dull ache had started in his chest again toward the end of the afternoon – it was clear that he wasn't fully recovered yet, and an afternoon of testifying had pushed him to his physical limits. One thing kept him upright, made him determined to push through his two days of testimony, and that was the promise that after this, he could return home to Pasadena. He would still be under watch until the trial, but they were videotaping the hearing – they would have recorded admissible evidence if anything happened to him. Masters had told him the mere fact that the truth would be out and on record would greatly reduce any risk to him, but they would keep a protective unit on him until the trial occurred, just to be safe.

Home. He ached for it, ached to see his father again, and – he had to admit it, Don, too. A piece of him, deep inside, hoped that his brother's snap was temporary insanity, induced by the stress of the last few weeks of their undercover assignment, and with some medical help, he might be cured. In the back of his mind, however, cold reality intruded. Even if Don could be helped, his career was likely over, and he very well could spend time in prison, unless a plea of insanity could free him. Charlie had to face the possibility that Don would forever hate him – hate him for pushing him, hate him for putting him in an untenable situation, hate him for being the catalyst for his mental break.

The fact was, Charlie had come to a realization that he was physically, mentally, and emotionally in danger of breaking himself. He could feel it – as if he were on the edge of something dark; and he knew he couldn't go on much longer without help. He wasn't sure who he was anymore – maybe Don had been right, maybe he really was an intolerable jerk, with an ego so huge it blinded him to the fact. Don _had_ been right about one thing – undercover assignments could play on one's mind, could change one's perception of oneself. He needed his father, now, Amita, Larry – someone who could vouch for the person he had been – or at least, whom he thought he had been. His brother's life would never be the same, and Charlie desperately needed to hear that this horrible situation wasn't his fault – at least not entirely.

Of course, there was the possibility that he'd find the opposite to be true – that he really had driven his brother to do this, and if that were the case, he knew that he'd wish that the knife had found its mark.

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End Chapter 38

A_/N: The boys are so close, in the same city, but neither knows the other is there. That all changes with the next chapter – yep, it's a biggie. _


	39. Chapter 39

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 39**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

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Thursday morning, the second day of the hearing, Masters and Rogan paused outside the door in another corridor of the courthouse. "It's a go?" asked Rogan, and Masters nodded.

"Yeah - I got the okay from Conaghan. Where's Wilkes?"

Jonathan Wilkes hurried down the hallway toward them, slightly breathless. "Here. Are we ready?"

Masters nodded. They looked at each other, and each of them read relief and purpose in the others' eyes. The charade had gone on long enough, and most of Charlie's testimony was out, and recorded. It was time. Masters opened the door, and they stepped inside.

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Thursday was turning out to be a long day, Don reflected, and it wasn't even half over. He'd started his testimony Wednesday morning, going over the undercover assignment, and described what Charlie had been assigned to do, as well as himself. He went into detail over how they'd worked their way into Montreaux's organization, and how he'd gotten the drug deals, and Charlie the programming assignment for the weapons deal. All the while, the Montreaux cousins sat there with their lawyer, stony-faced, expressions cold but composed. Near them with a separate lawyer sat the two Iranians, their faces nearly emotionless, shrouded.

Don's testimony took him through the morning until the lunch recess, and then, although he wasn't quite finished with his piece of the story, they allowed him to leave for the day. There had been more testimony scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, which would go into the next morning, and he hadn't been asked back to finish his part of the testimony until late Thursday morning. He wondered vaguely at the other testimony – probably computer experts expounding on the information on Charlie's flash drive, he imagined. Whatever the case, they didn't have him come back to the courthouse until ten that Thursday morning, and then he sat cooling his heels in an office – precisely what he'd spent all of Wednesday afternoon and evening doing, only in a hotel room. It wasn't until nearly eleven when they called to tell him he was due back in the courtroom.

He'd been ensconced in an office down a hallway near the courtroom with a security guard outside the door, and another inside to keep him company. The man turned out to be a Secret Service agent, and they passed the time chatting a bit, and flipping through the channels of a small television in the office. The agent controlled the remote, but Don didn't mind – any distraction was welcome. The testimony had dredged up memories of Charlie, still fresh and painful, and he was desperately trying to push them aside.

The door opened, and Bill Masters stepped in, scowling at the guard. "I thought I said to leave the TV off."

"I kept it off the courtroom channel," said the agent, but he immediately hit the 'off' button. It was the first inkling Don had that the television had a line from the courtroom. At a motion from Masters, the agent got to his feet and stepped out of the room.

Masters looked at Don. "You ready?"

It was a reference to the last piece of his testimony – the flight from the estate, and the accident. What happened after that – the brainwashing and his attack on Charlie, weren't being exposed at the hearing – the government had decided that the activity at Cypress Institute was too sensitive for a jury's ears. Don had wondered how they were explaining Charlie's absence, if they weren't bringing up what had happened afterward, but he hadn't had a chance to ask. Or maybe, he hadn't wanted to ask.

"Yeah, I'm ready," he responded, his throat tight. '_Liar_,' his mind told him. Talking to a roomful of strangers about his last rational moments with his brother was going to take every ounce of control that he had.

"Okay," said Masters. He looked a little distracted, and kept glancing over his shoulder at Wilkes. "First, though, we need to tell you something." He sat down on one side of Don and pulled up a chair, and Rogan took a seat on the other side. Wilkes remained standing, and leaned up against a wall, his eyes watchful.

Don's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is it?"

Masters shot one more glance at Rogan, and took a breath. "It's your brother. He's here."

Don stared at him; and for a moment thought wildly that Masters meant he'd brought the box of ashes with them. "What?"

"He's not dead," said Rogan, and Don jerked his head around to face him. Rogan's face twisted with sympathy. "We didn't tell you at first, because we were trying to protect him. We didn't know if anyone was going to try to get to him again, either through you or on their own, and we thought it best if everyone thought he was dead. He's been here, testifying all of yesterday afternoon, and most of this morning. He's nearly done." He leaned forward and hit a button on the remote, turning the television back on, and setting it on the live feed for the courtroom. Don stared at the screen, taking in the figure on the witness stand. He looked thin and unwell, his curly hair longer than he'd ever seen it, but it was without a doubt, Charlie. He was speaking; his low husky voice sounded tired. Rogan watched as Don's face went slack with astonishment, and then dead white.

Masters eyed him. "We're sorry, Eppes, we know this has been hard -,"

The remainder of his statement was cut off by an unexpected left hook. He went over, chair and all, as Don shot to his feet, his eyes blazing. "You son of a bitch! All of you!" Rogan grabbed his arm, and Don turned with lightening speed and pulled him, dragging Rogan's jaw right into an oncoming uppercut.

Rogan staggered backwards, as Wilkes moved from his corner, speaking sharply. "Don! Get a grip!"

Don stood, his legs apart, panting with fury, then slowly drew himself up to his full height, pointing a finger at Masters, who was scrambling up from the floor. His voice shook. "You let us believe – for how many days – that he was dead. I went through hell – my father went through hell -,"

Wilkes interrupted him, quietly. "You tried to kill him, and nearly succeeded. The knife slid between his heart and his lung, by some miracle – if it had been off by a matter of millimeters, he wouldn't be here now – that's how close it was. If it had been someone else who had stabbed him, rather than you, would you have wanted that person to know he was still alive?"

Don stared at him, a stricken expression creeping to his face. "No," he whispered.

Wilkes continued, as Masters and Rogan stood, collecting themselves, gingerly touching bruised faces. "The fact is, Eppes, I'm still not sure we can trust you around him. You've made progress, but you're not back to your original state. We wanted you to know, however, as soon as we got the go-ahead from Conaghan."

Don wrenched his eyes away from him, and looked back at the screen. Charlie was rising to his feet, his testimony concluded, and Don drank in the sight. He was alive – _God_… He could feel his throat closing, filling with emotion. He watched as Charlie moved out of sight, toward a side doorway in the courtroom, and then suddenly, overcome, Don swung blindly away toward the far wall, and leaned against it. A silence descended in the room as the other three watched him stand there for a moment, supported by a stiff arm, head down, chest rising and falling as he attempted to control his emotions.

Masters touched the bruise on his cheekbone and winced. "All right," he said gruffly. "Your brother's out of there. If you're done slugging, maybe we can head toward the courtroom now."

The first thing Don noticed when he walked back in was the expressions on the Montreaux cousins' faces. Their lawyer looked grim, and Pierre looked scared. Jack was better at hiding his feelings, but his dark eyes glittered with something – a mixture of anger and fear, Don decided. It was a far cry from their smug expressions from the day before, and Don was certain that Charlie's testimony had scored a direct hit.

He sat and looked at the jury, each of whom had been sworn to secrecy for an indeterminate period of years, due to the sensitive nature of the information. The magistrate swore him in, and at a prompt from the prosecutor, he took a deep breath, and began.

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Masters, Rogan and Wilkes made sure that Don was seated and his testimony underway, and quietly left the courtroom, convening just outside the door to the office where Charlie Eppes was sequestered. It was in a different hallway, perpendicular to the hall where Don had been kept; they'd taken care to make sure the brothers' paths didn't cross.

Masters looked at Wilkes. "Are you going to let them see each other?"

Wilkes shook his head. "I don't think so, after Don's reaction. He might just have been pissed at us, but the fact that he looked at Charlie and his immediate response was aggression and rage, was a bit worrisome." He looked at the purple swellings on their faces – Masters' cheekbone and Rogan's jaw, and smirked. "Looks like your reaction time isn't what it used to be, huh guys?"

They scowled at him, and Masters opened the door. "After you, wise ass."

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Charlie looked up from his seat in the courthouse office as Rogan and Masters entered, along with another man whom he couldn't place. His testimony was complete, and he hoped he would be allowed to go back to the hotel. He was exhausted, frankly, and his head was swimming with fatigue. He didn't bother to stand; he had run out of strength.

Masters motioned to the two guards in the room, and they left without a word. He stepped forward. "Charlie, there's something we need to talk to you about. This is Jonathan Wilkes, from Cypress Institute – he wants to go over something with you."

Wilkes looked at Charlie, who sat staring at him with a puzzled expression. "Charlie, we need to talk about what happened with Don." He studied the young man's face with interest, until now, he'd only seen him on camera. Charlie's expression had clouded at the last statement, and he lowered his gaze to floor.

Wilkes pulled a chair up beside him, and hunched forward to look into his face. "Charlie, I work at Cypress Institute, where your brother was taken after the accident. We specialize in neurological sciences there, and a group of us has a sub-specialty – mind control, known by some as brainwashing. We believe Joe Bishop, your handler, was dirty. He gave our supervisor orders – orders that we thought were sanctioned by the CIA, to brainwash your brother."

Charlie's face had come up, and he was staring at him now with an incredulous expression, but he remained silent, so Wilkes went on. "Our procedure allows us to accomplish that in a relatively short period of time. We place electrodes in the head in the emotional and decision-making centers, and provide electrical stimulus to the brain to induce the reactions we want. We also put in a receptor attached to the auditory nerve, so we can speak to the subjects without others hearing – we can give them orders. In this case, we had been instructed to program Don to kill you." He paused for a second, concern in his eyes; Charlie had gone white and his eyes had flickered slightly, losing focus as if he was about to pass out. "Are you okay?"

Charlie dragged glazed eyes to his face, and nodded slowly. Watching him carefully, Wilkes went on. "It wasn't something he could control, Charlie, even if he'd known we were doing it – which he didn't."

"You put wires in his _head_?" Charlie finally spoke, his voice cracking a little on the last word.

Wilkes nodded somberly. Even though he was looking straight at the professor, he was completely unprepared for the fist that shot lightening-fast for his face, and connected with his nose with a crack. "Ahhgg!" he exclaimed, doubling over with both hands covering his nose.

Charlie had risen to his feet, dark eyes blazing, arm raised for another punch, and Masters and Rogan were immediately at his side, Masters with a restraining hand on his arm. "Dr. Eppes," he chided, "it wasn't Wilkes' fault – he was only doing what he was instructed to do. Don is testifying right now – why don't you watch? I think it would be reassuring for you to listen to him – to see that he's rational."

Charlie looked from him to Wilkes; panting, then slowly sank into the chair again. Masters could see that he was trembling, from emotion or fatigue, or both, and he hastily switched on the television and tuned it to the courtroom feed. Wilkes' nose was bleeding; Rogan had found some tissues on the desk and Wilkes staggered over to a chair in the corner, sat and tilted his head back, tissues wadded against his nose.

Charlie was already oblivious to him, or anyone else in the room, for that matter; he was glued to figure on the screen, drinking in the sight of his brother, the sound of his voice. Both the cocky undercover persona and the raving maniac were gone – this was _Don_, calm, rational – himself again. Charlie felt a surge of relief, and tears stung his eyes. "It – it wasn't my fault."

The words were low, almost a whisper, but the sound was turned down on the television, and his statement was clearly heard. Wilkes, Rogan, and Masters looked at each other, bewildered, and then Wilkes, with a swipe at his nose, spoke. "Charlie – no – this wasn't your fault. It wasn't Don's, either. This form of mind control is very powerful – no one has ever overcome it, although your brother came closer to doing that than anyone had before. We manipulated him – and you – got you to run to the FBI offices, where we could stage the – attempt – in front of witnesses. Fortunately for all of us, luck - or perhaps something more profound - stepped in."

Masters added, "Your brother has not been charged with any crime – we had the case placed in front of the Attorney General, who has the clearance to be filled in on the details. He elected not to file charges."

They fell silent; Charlie had dropped his head, covering his face with his hand, visibly overcome. They sat there for a moment, as Don's clear voice floated out from the television set, describing their flight to the airport. Charlie's head came up suddenly, and he looked at the three of them, blinking back moisture in his eyes. "I want to see him – I can see him, right, as soon as he's done?"

Wilkes shook his head, regretfully. "Charlie – he's still undergoing a reversal of the brainwashing. He's made a lot of progress, so much that at this point, I can say that I have high hopes that he's going to recover fully. However, I've only been working with him for a week, and then only a few hours each day – other things have intruded on the time. We still can't predict how he'll behave around you."

Charlie was staring at him. "What do you mean?" he asked faintly.

Wilkes hesitated. "There's always a chance with the electrical stimulation that the brain can become hardwired, permanently, to its new state. Add to that the fact that you and your brother apparently had – issues – to begin with; well let's just say I'm not entirely comfortable that he's safe for you to be around just yet."

Charlie's eyes flared. "How do you know that?" he demanded. "How could you possibly know how he'll react unless you tried it?"

"We _will_ try it," Wilkes responded reasonably. "When you are both home in L.A., we'll set up some controlled situations where you can see each other again, and interact. This is not the time or the place. Please, I'm asking you for your own good – and Don's. He's really been beating himself up over this, and if he slips somehow – even if he merely says something sharply, the guilt that would engender could hamper his recovery. You don't want that to happen."

"No," Charlie admitted quietly. He turned his gaze to the screen again, and let out a shaky sigh, wincing as his rib cage expanded.

"You look exhausted, Professor," said Rogan. "Why don't you finish watching your brother's testimony, and then we'll get you back to the hotel?"

Charlie merely nodded, his attention already recaptured by the figure on the screen. Masters, Rogan, and Wilkes rose, and stepped out quietly, and at Master's motion, one of the guards re-entered the office to sit with Charlie. Out in the hallway, Wilkes cautiously touched his nose, which was red and beginning to swell. "Damn. I think he broke it."

Masters grinned wickedly, wincing a little as the movement involved his swollen cheekbone. "Guess your reaction time isn't what used to be, is it?"

Wilkes shot him a sour glance. "I expected it out of Don – not the professor. Frankly, he doesn't look strong enough to tie his own shoes right now."

Rogan grinned. "Maybe it's genetic." He sobered at little. "Come to think of it, based on that, maybe Don's reaction wasn't out of line. Maybe you _could_ let them see each other."

"Let's just wait, okay?" Wilkes sounded sharp, impatient. "I've got enough on my conscience with these two – if you don't mind, I'd like to play it safe. And I still say, Don's not predictable right now. Of course, you assholes don't care, now – you've got the professor's testimony on tape – you don't really give a shit what happens to him at this point, do you?"

"Now wait a minute," growled Masters, turning red.

"Hold up," said Rogan, warningly, trying to circumvent an argument. "Look who's coming."

They glanced down the hall to see CIA Director Conaghan striding toward them, beaming, accompanied by Assistant Director Mark Lewis. "Agents – good to see you. I'd say the hearing went as well as it could go, wouldn't you?" Conaghan broke off as he stopped in front of them, and got a closer look at their faces. "What in the hell happened to you three?"

They looked at each other sheepishly, and Rogan shuffled his feet, uncomfortably. "Don't ask, sir. Don't ask."

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The secret service agent stuck his head through the office door, and looked at Don. "Time to go, agent," he said cheerfully. Don could imagine that the man was glad to be done – sitting for hours trying to make conversation with a man who was not exactly in a chatty mood had to wear on one's patience. Don was glad to be done, too – his part of the testimony was over, and they'd put him back in his office for several minutes afterward. Keeping him from Charlie.

That, he reasoned, was the main purpose for the wait. Oh, sure, they had to get the vehicles ready, but things got a little more complex when they were trying to move two of them out of the building - especially when they didn't want the two to run into each other.

As things worked out, however, that was exactly what happened. Well, _not exactly_, Don thought later. But close enough.

His two guards walked him down the hallway, and at the far end near the exit door, he could see Wilkes and Rogan standing there, waiting for him. He obstinately took his time, glancing at doorways as he passed. Was Charlie behind one of them? The initial shock of the news and then the testimony had kept Don's mind from absorbing the fact that his brother was _here,_ in the same building, but as he sat in the office waiting afterwards, the realization had sunk in, along with a deep need to see him. Strange conflicting emotions ran through him, love and sorrow, guilt and frustration; he could feel them, boiling underneath the surface, as he walked down the hall. Charlie was alive…

He figured later that Charlie's guards must have assumed that Don had already left the building. Otherwise, they wouldn't have left the door open.

A side hallway opened up to Don's left, and as he passed, he automatically looked down it. About three quarters of the way down, a door was open on the right side, and as Don glanced that way he saw a familiar figure, moving in front of it. Charlie – his brother had apparently just entered the hallway when a voice called him back, and he disappeared back through the open door. It had been just a glimpse – Charlie had stepped out, then back in. A split second later and Don wouldn't have seen him at all. Charlie was right there, so close… He stopped dead, and fumbled for an excuse.

"I need to get a drink," he told the guard, motioning toward a water fountain at the end of the side hallway, past Charlie's room. He took off at a trot down the hall, before they could respond.

Down the end of the main hall, around the corner, he could hear Wilkes shout, "Hey!"

"He needs a drink!" one of his guards yelled back, and Don picked up speed, moving from a trot to a sprint. He was going to see him, God damn it – unless he got a bullet in his back.

He could hear feet pounding down the hallways behind him as Rogan yelled to the guards, "His brother's down there!" and just as Don reached the door to Charlie's office, Masters stepped out with a guard behind him, and Don slid to halt in front of them, catching a glimpse of Charlie, his back turned, in the office beyond.

"Charlie!" he yelled, as Masters and the guard grabbed at his arms, holding him firmly in place.

Charlie whirled, his face going white, and for a sickening moment, Don could see the fear in his eyes. Fear of him.

For a second or two they stared at each other through the doorway; then Masters growled, "C'mon Eppes, you'll see him later." He and the guard began to muscle him away from the door, as Wilkes, Rogan and the other guards came up, panting.

"Please," Don pleaded, resisting their attempts to move him. Seeing Charlie so near had made him even more desperate. "I just want to see him – just for a second." Another guard came up from behind, grabbing his shoulders, pushing, and the struggle began to escalate into a tussle.

"Wait!"

The sound of Charlie's voice cut through the air, and the group froze.

Don looked through the doorway, Charlie was standing there alone in the office, pale, resolute. His suit was far too large and it hung on his thin frame; if it weren't for the situation and the determined look in his eye, his appearance might have prompted a smile.

"Let him go." Charlie's voice was thick with emotion.

Wilkes looked past Don at Charlie, misgiving in his face. "I don't recommend this, Dr. Eppes."

A flare of anger appeared in Charlie's eyes. "I don't care. If anything happens, it's my responsibility. Just – let him go."

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Charlie watched as the men's hands relinquished their grip, and Don straightened and turned, his heart catching as Don's eyes met his. Charlie stared, trying to read the expression in them, fear warring with the need to see Don, to talk to him, to know that he was all right… He had been startled at first to see him in the doorway – face it, he'd told himself, he'd felt a surge of panic, but as he watched Don struggle he knew suddenly that it didn't matter. It didn't matter because if Don attacked him again, Charlie wouldn't care if he lived anyway. There was something else, too – a gut feel, a sense that somehow, this was going to be okay.

Still, when Don suddenly rushed through the doorway towards him, it was all he could do not to flinch. He saw the others, startled by Don's sudden movement, begin to charge in after him, but they halted as it became clear that his brother wasn't going to hurt him – as Don's arms came around him, in a close, needy embrace, holding him so tight he could scarcely breathe. "I'm sorry," Don was whispering brokenly in his ear, his head down, nearly buried in Charlie's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry…"

He was shaking, and Charlie put trembling arms of his own around him, hugging him as tightly as he could manage, and closed his eyes, as a weight lifted from his soul. "It's okay," he whispered back. "It's okay – it's going to be okay."

And as they stood there, they felt time roll back, just a little, and let in a glimmer of hope.

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End Chapter 39

_A/N: And now everything will sweetness and light, right? Not! Ah, Charlie, you are so wrong…_


	40. Chapter 40

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 40**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Many thanks for the reviews._

* * *

Late in the morning on Friday, Wilkes slouched in a hotel room chair, frowning. The hotel room was Charlie's and was actually more of a suite, with a sitting room and separate bedroom. Wilkes, Masters, and Rogan were in the sitting room, and in the bedroom beyond, the two Eppes brothers sat, each of them on one of the double beds, talking quietly. Both of them had finished with their testimony, and the lawyers were wrapping up their presentations at the courthouse. Rogan and Masters had instructions to keep the Eppes men available in case there were questions, but none were anticipated, so they'd camped out at the hotel, waiting for word from the courthouse that it was over, and they could head for the private jet that would take them to L.A. Against Wilkes' better judgment, Don and Charlie, supported by Rogan and Masters, had convinced Wilkes that they could spend the time reconnecting.

Don's penitent behavior the day before had given Wilkes no good reason to insist otherwise, so he reluctantly agreed, with some guidelines – Don had to keep his distance, and they had to remain in sight while they talked. The hotel suite was a perfect place for it – they could see the brothers in the other room, each sitting on a double bed, but the television in the sitting room drowned them out, so they had privacy for their conversation. At least some privacy – Wilkes was a skilled observer of body language and expressions, and he watched their interaction with a mixture of concern and interest.

"I think we're taking this too fast," he muttered.

Masters lifted an eyebrow and shot a glance into the next room. "They look okay to me," he said. "You worry too much. You saw Don yesterday – if that wasn't genuine regret, then I don't what is."

"Oh, I'm sure it was genuine regret," returned Wilkes, as Rogan turned away from the television to listen to him. "The problem is, while the deprogramming process is going on, the subject's emotions can be all over the map, and are extremely unpredictable. Don is no exception to that. The guilt and remorse he showed yesterday were overpowering any other emotions at the time – it doesn't mean he's going to exhibit the same feelings today. In fact, he looks edgy to me – he keeps getting off the bed and pacing, and he fidgets while he's sitting. He's got something pent up inside."

Masters watched them for a moment. "So go look at your controls. You've got them with you, right?"

Wilkes nodded. "Yeah – they're in the guard's room across the hall, but they're packed in their cases. I don't know if I can trust what they say, anyway - the dampening devices we implanted in him skew the outputs and make him hard to read. I can't get a good grip on where he really is."

Rogan shrugged. "I don't know – it looks like they're getting along okay to me. I think they're doing pretty well, considering."

"Too well," grumped Wilkes. "From my work with Don previously, I got that they didn't communicate a whole lot when it came to personal matters - they worked together, but they didn't have heart-to-heart chats, by any means. There were some issues there, even before Don's programming, but today they seem to be conversing easily. I think Don Eppes is trying his best to suppress any negative feelings he's having, which isn't necessarily healthy. And Dr. Eppes…," he trailed off for a moment studying him. "Look at his body language – his expression. He's hanging on Don's every word – I haven't had a chance to profile him, but just looking at him, my guess is he'd follow him anywhere, do anything he asked. He should be acting reserved, or pissed, but he's not. Look at his face. What would you call that expression?"

Masters studied him. "He looks like he's happy to be here."

Wilkes nodded. "Pathetically grateful, is what I'd call it. Oh, he's still suffering from the effects of the attack – he's afraid, he tenses when Don gets up from the bed, but I can see him almost physically shake it off, every time that happens. He's so damn glad to have his brother back; he'll do anything to look the other way if Don behaves irrationally."

"So what's wrong with that?" asked Rogan. "If Don Eppes is going to get over this, won't it be easier if Charlie is forgiving?"

"Yes, it will," admitted Wilkes. "And I'd be all for it except for two things. One, we're not sure we can trust Eppes, yet, but Charlie seems determined to, in spite of any lingering fear – it's going to make him more susceptible, leave him unprepared if something does happen. And two – I think they're both camouflaging their feelings. It isn't healthy for Charlie to deny feelings of anger or fear that he might be experiencing, and it isn't healthy for Don to try to bury his remaining anger – to ignore feelings that might be still left by the programming. If he denies them, it's going to impede his progress."

They watched as Don got to his feet again, pacing, and averted their gazes as he swung around toward them. Watching him, but not watching.

"Damn," said Rogan. "Now you've got me worrying – and I was feeling pretty good about this."

* * *

Jack Montreaux sat in his cell on the edge of his cot, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees, waiting for word to come from the courthouse. He and Pierre weren't required to be present in court today – the lawyers were going through their last statements, and then the jury would be dismissed to deliberate, to decide whether or not to indict – to send them on to a trial. There was no question in Jack's mind – Charles Eppes had erased any doubt. This was going to trial. He was facing court proceedings for treason.

They had gotten word through their lawyer several days prior that Charles Eppes had been killed, and so the news that he was alive – which they'd received one day before the hearings – had come as a complete shock. If the prosecution could have, they would have sprung it on them in the courtroom, but the law dictated that they had to provide the list of witnesses whom they intended to call. The Attorney General's representative made the excuse that they didn't know themselves that Dr. Eppes would be well enough to testify until the last minute, but Montreaux's lawyer secretly scoffed at that, and argued with the judge that they should have had more time to prepare than one day. In fact, upon hearing that Charles Eppes was alive, Pierre was so rattled that he passed word to Jack that evening through their lawyer that he wanted cooperate. They hadn't even had a chance to discuss it yet, when a dark skinned guard had visited each of their cells, surreptitiously passing them a message with their meal trays. The message said to keep quiet, that all would be taken care of after the hearing, well before the trial.

It was a cryptic message, but it was enough to keep the Montreaux cousins calm and silent. It was difficult, though, sitting through the grand jury hearing and listening to the evidence stack up against them. Both of the Eppes brothers had done well with their testimony; the professor had looked weak and ill, but that only engendered sympathy for him among the jurors. The prosecution explained his condition by saying he was the victim of a knife attack – by whom, they didn't say, and that they asserted that the people behind it were trying to silence him so he couldn't testify. Locked away, the Montreaux cousins had little access to the news, even their lawyer didn't know much, and Jack wondered how the attack had occurred, and who was behind it. It had to be Khalid, or J. Scott Marsh, Jack reasoned. Judging from the Middle Eastern appearance of the guard who had passed them the note, possibly Khalid. It figured, he thought dourly. Marsh was out of this, as long as they kept their mouths shut – he probably was playing innocent. It was unlikely he'd put himself out to try to take care of Eppes. Yes, it had to be Khalid.

And now, the last day of the hearings, the Middle Eastern guard was back. Jack saw him pass by, but the man spared him barely a glance. He didn't work their cell block, so Jack presumed that he was here to slip them another message, probably stopping first at Pierre's cell, three down from Jack's, and on the opposite side. Just seconds later, he heard the scream – a wild angry torrent of Arabic – and jumped to his feet, just as the gunshot sounded.

* * *

Don sprang up from the bed again, wincing as he saw Charlie recoil – ever so slightly, but it was there, along with the momentary flash of fear. Remorse shot through Don, and behind it, just as quickly, irritation. He was a seething cauldron of emotions; being in the same room with Charlie was far more difficult than he'd thought it would be. He was edgy, jumpy – one minute he wanted to dash across the room and hug Charlie, and the next, he wanted to bolt from the room, as one confusing sensation after the other flashed through him, like pictures in a slide show.

It was nothing less than torture. Granted, he was overjoyed that Charlie was here, alive, safe – and more than that, that he seemed to _want_ to be there - Charlie seemed, incredibly, to have forgiven him. That joy was offset by anxiety; however – the cascade of emotions was extremely unsettling, and Don wondered if Wilkes was right – that perhaps it was too soon for this. The more he experienced the dizzying sensations, the less in control he felt, and the more anxious he became. That led to a feeling of irritation – damn it, couldn't he just sit with his brother in a room and talk? What in the hell had they taken from him?

He caught the anger ratcheting up before it got out of control, jumping off the bed to pace it off, his gut in a clutch of fear. He worried that maybe one flash would come along that was more intense than the others, and he would flip out – do something horrible again. That was when he caught Charlie's start of fear, and a whole other sensation washed through him – guilt, and sorrow. Damn, he was a mess. He refused to leave, however; he was determined to stick it out. He was sure he'd come farther in one hour in the room with Charlie than he had in three sessions with Wilkes. The faster he could deprogram himself, the better.

He paused in his pacing and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, wiping away a trickle of sweat. Charlie was eyeing him soberly, and Don tried to smile. "So," he said, "you were talking about the people who took care of you – where was it?"

Charlie was as quiet and calm as Don was jumpy. Subdued – no, more than that – he was exhausted, Don realized. He sat slightly hunched on his double bed, one arm held across his midsection protectively. He was wearing a tweed jacket today, over a t-shirt that did little to hide how thin he was. He'd been to hell and back – they both had, and for what? For an undercover operation that they shouldn't have undertaken to begin with.

Charlie was hesitating, watching him, and Don pushed down the wayward jolt of irritation that had overtaken him, and sat down on his bed again, positioning himself to listen.

"Their names were Tom and Martha Bodman – at least, that's what they went by," Charlie said quietly. "I don't know where we were – they flew me out in a chopper – somewhere in the mountains. Colorado maybe, or Montana or Wyoming. I don't even remember how long the flight was – I was pretty out of it. Martha was a doctor."

A doctor. Of course, he'd need a doctor. Don remembered the details attack only dimly – he'd stabbed him more than once, he was sure – three times maybe? Four? There was a line on Charlie's hand, the thin pink-purple scar of a healing gash. He'd raised his hands to defend himself…

Charlie was looking at him anxiously, and Don blinked, and rubbed his face. "It was hard," Don said, his voice suddenly cracking, his eyes stinging with tears, as sorrow washed through him. He broke off, and ran a hand over his face, then tilted his face up toward the ceiling, fighting to compose his features. He could hear Charlie's voice.

"When did they tell you?"

Don blinked, and lowered his gaze to look at Charlie. "Tell me about the wiring? A couple of days later, I guess – I'm not sure now. It seemed like forever. I thought I was going crazy. Before the – attack - I could hear a voice through the receiver in my head, and I thought – well, that I was cracking up. It was a relief, I guess, especially for Dad, to find out about it."

Charlie's face cleared a little. "They told Dad?"

Don nodded. "And my immediate team – Megan was there still – they told her, and Nikki, Colby, and David, and Wright knows – and Robin. Other than that, they kept it quiet. Of course, it didn't help much –," he looked away, his mouth quirked in a sad, odd little expression. "Nothing helped much, when we thought you were gone."

Charlie's brow knit in confusion. "I _was_ gone – I was convalescing-," he broke off suddenly, his eyes widening. "Gone – as in dead – _that_ gone?"

Don nodded, looking equally puzzled. "You didn't know?"

"That they told you I was dead?" Charlie looked stunned. "I mean, I knew that was the story they'd put out for most people for my protection, but I assumed they would have explained to the rest of you - ," he stopped and looked at Don. "How long before they told you?"

Don shook his head sadly. "They didn't, Charlie. I didn't find out until yesterday. Dad still doesn't know – they wouldn't let me use the phone. Afraid the call could be traced to this hotel somehow, I guess." As if to mock his words, a cell phone buzzed in the other room, and he could hear Masters answer it, his voice sharp. Don felt suddenly anxious again, and rose from the bed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Charlie stared at Don, horrified. "They told me not to call Dad – said it was for his own safety – oh, God." He jumped up from the bed, wincing at the too-quick movement. "We'd better call him now."

"No time for that," Masters said briskly as he strode into the room. "Conaghan just called – we need to get moving. The jet's waiting."

Don frowned. "Why, what's going on?"

Rogan stood in the doorway, his face troubled. "We're not sure, but Conaghan doesn't want to take any chances. Someone just hit the Montreaux brothers – it was a guard at the prison, of Middle Eastern descent. They're both dead. The guard came into their block, screamed something in Arabic, shot them, then turned the gun on himself. Your testimony is finished, and Conaghan wants you both out of town until we figure out what's happening. We're going to get you back home, get a protection detail on you."

"I need to pack," Charlie stammered, snatching at a toiletry case that contained his medicine.

"Forget it," said Masters, pulling him by the arm toward the door. "Those clothes we got didn't fit you anyway, and there weren't that many of them." He glanced at Don. "Rogan said you're already packed and checked out. Let's move."

Don smiled at him coldly. "No problem – just take your hand off his arm."

Masters looked down at his hand, realized he was still clutching Charlie's arm, and caught the expression of pain on Charlie's face. Masters dropped his arm quickly, but muttered under his breath as they stepped out of the room. "You're a fine one to talk."

Wilkes caught the exchange, and the black look in Don's eyes as they stepped out into the hallway made the hair rise on the back of his neck. It might have been coincidence, or simply a bad angle, but he could swear that Don Eppes was directing that malevolent look at his brother, and not at Bill Masters.

* * *

End Chapter 40


	41. Chapter 41

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 41**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Ask and ye shall receive..._

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J. Scott Marsh glanced up from his desk at a quick knock at the door. It eased open, and his supervisor, Mark Lewis, slipped into the room. "Hey, Scott."

Marsh raised an eyebrow, trying not to look surprised. He got along well with his boss, but Lewis wasn't one inclined to indulge in idle chitchat. He was here for something, and Marsh suspected it was about the hearing – Lewis had promised him he'd keep him updated.

He was right. Lewis leaned against a bookcase, and said, "You know your old buddy, Montreaux?"

Marsh made a face. "I told you, I barely knew the guy, and liked him less."

Lewis' face twisted, wryly. "Well, that's good then, because the son of a bitch is dead."

Marsh's mouth dropped open, and he felt his gut clench. "Dead?"

Lewis nodded. "The hit just went down, about an hour ago. Apparently, they had a guard on the inside – he was born in this country, but his parents were Egyptian. He made a suicide run – shot both Pierre and Jack Montreaux in their cells, and then shot himself. At the same time, the two other men on trial – Iranians, killed themselves. Poison – delivered by the guard, apparently, before he went to the Montreaux cellblock. Someone is going through a lot of trouble to make sure that none of this gets back to them."

Marsh shook his head, truly bewildered. "But why do that?"

Lewis shook his head. "The only thing we can think of is that they decided the hearing went in the prosecution's favor – which it did, and they were afraid the Montreaux cousins would decide to deal, to save their own skins." He stared at the floor, bemusedly, and then straightened and shrugged. "I guess it saves us the cost of a trial."

"Hmm," murmured Marsh, still trying to get his mind around the news. "I guess so."

He waited a half hour after Lewis had gone, and then left the building, pulling out his cell phone when he thought he'd driven far enough away. When Khalid's voice came on the other end, he said, "Marsh here. What in the hell gives? I said I would take care of it."

Khalid's voice was dry. "Oh, you'll need to take care of things – for your own sake. When I heard that Dr. Eppes was still alive, it brought another dimension of concern to the situation."

Marsh nearly rear-ended a vehicle that had stopped in front of him, and he maneuvered, trying to pull off the road into a nearby parking lot. "Charles Eppes is alive?" he managed.

"Yes. You didn't know? That provides a particularly sticky problem, doesn't it? He is the only one who has seen you and me – the only one who can connect us with the case. Apparently, your experts in coercion didn't carry out their task as required – or Don Eppes simply failed to do their bidding. Yes, you will need to take care of things – of both of them, now. However, I couldn't afford another surprise. I decided to act. Now the Montreaux cousins will not be a problem, and three of my soldiers have claimed glorious deaths for Allah. All that remains is to deal with the Eppes brothers – that bit I have left for you, since you seem to have plans, at least for Don Eppes. Or perhaps you are not up for the task?"

Marsh was beginning to recover from his surprise, and a nasty surge of impatience and anger shot through him. "I said I would take care of it, and I will. What you staged at the prison was not necessary, and will only make it harder to get to them."

Khalid sounded unconcerned. "That, my friend, is your issue. It was in my control to deal with Montreaux, so I did. My source tells me that the Eppes men were taken to the airport this morning, and departed on a private jet. You should take care of this as soon as possible, so we can move on with our plans before my sources of funding dry up."

The line went dead, and Marsh stared through the windshield with unseeing eyes, his mind already on the problem. The basic premise – using the controls to draw Don Eppes out and kill him, was still viable. So was the first idea – using Don Eppes to get to his own brother. Marsh just needed to figure out how to tie the two plans together. More than likely, the Eppes men had been flown back home, although that would be easy to verify. It was time for a trip to L.A.

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Charlie roused as the noise of the jet engines increased and the private jet began to bank for landing. He'd tried hard to stay awake, but midway through the flight he'd passed out from exhaustion. He was still in pain, still so tired.

It was bearable now, though – anything was bearable now that he knew the truth. Don hadn't really hated him; Charlie still had no idea of how his brother felt about him under normal circumstances, but he had been fairly certain it wasn't hate. Maybe not love, he thought ruefully, but at least his brother didn't detest him so much he wanted him dead. Of course, from the sounds of it, it would take Don awhile to get back to his old self, and he_ had_ seemed edgy at the hotel, but it was almost – normal - when Charlie had thought that nothing would be normal again. And now, he was landing, nearly home.

He closed his eyes; he could imagine the Craftsman – his father… He'd wanted to call him, had asked again when they were preparing for takeoff, but Masters refused, saying he'd see him in a few hours anyway. He could almost feel his father's arms around him, and he sighed and opened his eyes. This horrible journey was almost over; healing could begin.

He twisted in his seat to look for Don, and met his brother's gaze over the seat tops. Don was seated further back in the jet, in a row of seats facing the other way – Wilkes had insisted on it. Don's head was turned now too, facing him, and as Charlie turned to look at him, Don's face softened. Not quite a smile, but a good sign. Charlie sent him a small smile himself, and turned back around. Yes, it might take awhile, but healing was already beginning.

He refused to consider the alternative, of which Wilkes had informed him in no uncertain terms - the possibility that Don was still dangerous for him to be around, and might never get back to his original feelings for Charlie – whatever they were. If not closeness, Charlie had liked to think that there was at least a little affection there, maybe some respect. He'd been unsatisfied with their relationship before, wishing they were closer, but now he'd happily take that if he could get it. Who knew? Maybe their relationship would even deepen as a result. Wilkes could warn and conjecture all he wanted – Charlie had his brother back, and he wasn't going to listen to anyone who said otherwise.

The seat in front of him dipped oddly in a way that had nothing to do with the descending plane, and Charlie gripped the armrest until his vision cleared. In spite of the nap on the plane, the stress of traveling and the hearing had taxed his healing body, and he was reaching his limits. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, stiffening slightly as the jet bounced lightly on the runway.

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Don caught sight of his father's car in the driveway of the Craftsman, and shook his head slightly in exasperation. Alan _was_ here, after all. Don hadn't been able to reach him on the phone - neither his house phone nor his cell phone.

They'd finally gotten permission to proceed to call him upon landing, and Don had volunteered, saying it would be less of a shock for his father to hear him explain things than it would be for him to hear Charlie's voice over the phone. Besides, Charlie looked dead tired, and Don figured he could sleep on the way there - in a separate vehicle. Charlie was traveling in an SUV with Rogan and Masters, and Don was in another vehicle with Wilkes and a taciturn agent – from what agency, Don could only guess. The separate vehicles were Wilkes' doing, Don was sure – the man seemed determined to keep them apart.

The fact was; Don was a little relieved. The emotional rollercoaster he experienced while in Charlie's presence was draining. He'd calmed down on the plane – seated with his back to Charlie, but his stomach flip-flopped strangely as they disembarked and he got a good look at his brother again. His feelings of the moment were centered around pity and concern – Charlie looked wiped out - and a searing, almost painful sensation of love and gratitude to have him back. They were all good emotions, Don knew, but so stark, so sharp they were almost unbearable. He felt on the verge of tears, and couldn't wait to see his father and his brother together in the Craftsman, although he wondered if the poignancy of the moment was going to be more than he could handle in his current state. As he had been all day, he was aware of other darker, nastier emotions, but he was starting to get better at suppressing them, and only allowing the good ones to surface in his consciousness. He was going to lick this; he didn't care what Wilkes thought.

His vehicle pulled up in front of the Craftsman, and the SUV pulled into the drive behind Alan's vehicle, putting Charlie a little closer to the house. Don's heart swelled again, painfully, as he saw the slight figure slide from the vehicle, a little shakily. Charlie was home. God, and to think that just a little over 24 hours ago, he thought he'd never see him again…

In spite of Charlie's several-step head start, Don easily passed him as he crossed the lawn. "I wasn't able to get Dad on the phone. Let me go in first, Buddy," he said, and he saw Charlie's head come up at the nickname, and a look in his dark eyes that made Don's eyes sting yet again with gratitude. God, he was an emotional mess, Don thought, but it felt good to feel something positive – he wasn't going to fight it. He knocked to give Alan a heads-up that someone was at the door, and opened it, without waiting for a response.

Alan pushed out through the kitchen door to answer the knock as Don stepped over the threshold. It was late afternoon but the sky was cloudy, and the kitchen and living room lights were on, spilling a warm light into the Craftsman. Don loved the house at night, especially; it looked homey, cozy and warm with the soft interior lighting, and he could smell something delicious wafting out from the kitchen. Home. They were home.

"Donnie," his father's face creased with a smile of surprise and pleasure. "I didn't expect you back until tomorrow."

"Dad -," Don began, trying to figure out how to tell him quickly, with Charlie just a few steps behind him. "Dad - I brought someone with me."

He had barely gotten the statement out, when he heard a step behind him, and he saw Alan's face go blank, stunned, as he caught sight of the slight figure in the doorway.

Don turned to look at Charlie – his dark eyes were focused on his father, his face full of emotion – too much for words. Alan stared at him, then at Don, and then back at Charlie, as his feet suddenly started moving. "Charlie-,"

Alan crossed the room to Charlie in a few long strides, his arms held out, a dishtowel draped forgotten over one of them, his face twisting with disbelief and tears. Charlie staggered a bit as Alan embraced him, fiercely, but returned the hug just as tightly, burying his face in his father's shoulder. Don couldn't take the surge of emotion; he had to look away for a moment, fighting for control. When he looked back, Alan had taken a slight step backward, but he obviously couldn't bear to release Charlie – he held him at arms' length and looked into Charlie's face, as if he could read the answers to his questions in it.

Tears were glistening in Alan's eyes, and he looked at Don dazedly, with just a fleeting glance at Rogan, Masters, and Wilkes who were quietly filing through the open doorway. "What-," began Alan, and choked on his bewilderment. He turned back to Charlie, as if still trying to comprehend what he was seeing, and Charlie, whose eyes were shining with a few tears of his own, gave him a quiet smile.

Masters took it upon himself to explain, stepping forward a bit warily, and keeping an eye on Alan's hands while he did. The Eppes men tended to answer shocking news with their fists. "We thought it in Charlie's best interest to let others think he was dead, sir, while he was recuperating and waiting to testify. I'm sorry to put you through that – it was for his own protection."

Alan gaped at him, then suddenly released Charlie and rushed toward him; and Masters took a quick defensive step back, bumping into Rogan. He was raising his hands to ward off the punch he knew was coming, when he found himself enveloped instead by a big hug, and Alan threw back his head and laughed with pure joy. "You brought back both of my sons, and you're apologizing?" Masters rubbed his head, embarrassed, as Alan released him, moved back toward Charlie, and gave him another heartfelt embrace, then looked into his face, searchingly. "How are you, son?"

"Good." Charlie lied. His legs were beginning to shake, and he was feeling dizzy. He would _not _ruin this moment by passing out, he told himself fiercely, and swallowed and smiled. "Glad to be home."

Alan looked at Charlie with concern. "You'd better sit down before you fall down." He took Charlie by the arm, and as they turned, Don reached out, and took Charlie's opposite arm. He was aware of the others' eyes on him, watching his every move, but he didn't care. He could feel Charlie's arm, thin, sinewy under his jacket, and the touch sent a jolt of something uncomfortable through him – he wondered if Charlie felt discomfort, too. He kept his grip, however, until they had Charlie safely established on the sofa. Alan stood back and just stared at his youngest for a moment – he was clearly still having a hard time processing this, and Don watched as Charlie's eyes met his father's, and they gazed at each other – the moment obviously too deep, too surreal for words. Alan roused himself suddenly, and said, apropos of nothing, "I'm making lasagna. I was going to freeze it, but we now have a houseful to eat it. You're all welcome to stay for dinner." With that, he rushed off suddenly for the kitchen.

Don found him there a minute later, leaning over the sink, sobbing into his dishtowel, and he laid a gentle hand on Alan's shoulder. "Dad, are you okay?"

"Yes." The word was watery, wavering. "I just -," he wiped his face and swallowed. "I'm just glad – it was quite a shock – I'm just having a hard time handling all the emotions, that's all."

Don was silent for a moment, his face sobering. "Yeah," he said softly. "I know what you mean."

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End Chapter 41


	42. Chapter 42

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 42**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all – I read every one, and I am very humbly grateful. The traffic for this story amazes me – thanks to all my readers, all over the globe. _

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Colby steered his SUV through the darkening streets of Pasadena and scowled at the pavement unwinding in front of him. "D'you think I overstepped it a little, asking if Ian could come too?"

David shrugged. "Don could have said 'no.' And what were we supposed to do? We'd already invited Ian out for a beer after work. Tell him we got a better offer?"

Colby pulled to halt at a stop sign and scratched his head before stepping on the gas again. "Well, Don did hesitate a little, but then he sounded okay with it. He said it was going to be pretty casual, anyway. I let him know that Nikki had other plans."

"Did he say anything about Charlie? I wonder if they even told him yet that he's alive."

Colby shook his head as he swung around a corner, and slowed as the vehicle approached the Craftsman. "I don't know, man. I was afraid to say anything. Don said he just got back from testifying, but he didn't say anything about Charlie. I'm not even sure Charlie would have been healed up enough to testify – maybe they're doing his testimony next week. It's possible that Don and Alan don't know, yet."

David paused for a moment, looking at the Craftsman, acutely aware that the last time he'd set eyes on Don, his SAC had been holding a bloody knife. "This is some hard stuff to deal with," he said, softly.

"Tell me about it," said Colby. "I talked to Megan the other day – she said she's been avoiding Larry's calls, because she feels like she's lying every time she talks to him. Larry and Amita were never told anything about any of this – they don't even know it happened. All they know was that Don and Charlie went to D.C., and got in an accident there, and came home to recover. Megan said that Larry told her that Charlie himself has talked to them a few times – but they have no idea what happened to him."

David shook his head. "I'll tell you what, if we have to sit and lie to Don and Alan for a couple of hours… all I can say is, I'm glad Ian's coming. He'll be a distraction. What time did he say he would get here?"

"He was gonna leave about fifteen or twenty minutes after we did," said Colby as he opened the SUV door. "He said he wanted to make one more call."

They trudged up the lawn and rang the front doorbell, both of them subconsciously straightening sagging shoulders, as if preparing to step onstage. Don opened the door. "Hey guys," he said quietly. "Thanks for coming."

"Sure," said Colby easily, grasping Don's hand in a firm grip with one hand, and clasping his shoulder briefly with the other, trying to convey support through the gesture. Don looked thinner and tired, but relatively good, considering, Colby thought – just briefly, because as he stepped through the door, it registered that there were others in the room. He recognized Bill Masters and Brian Rogan, but not the other man, a tall, sandy-haired man who stepped forward with his hand extended.

"Jonathan Wilkes," he said. His eyes were keen, speculative; Colby got the impression that the man was assessing them, watching them for a reaction. He shook the man's hand, and as he turned to look into the room, he heard David's quick intake of air behind him. At the same time, he saw him – the familiar curly-haired figure seated on the sofa. Charlie was watching him, and as Colby's eyes caught his, the corner of Charlie's mouth lifted in slight smile, and he pushed himself to his feet.

Colby's mouth dropped open, then suddenly he whooped and charged forward, vaguely aware of David lumbering right behind him. "Charlie – holy shit, man!" Colby bellowed, an incredulous grin spreading over his face as he reached Charlie and grabbed him in an exuberant, awkward one-armed hug. Alan watched from behind the sofa, beaming.

David was right behind Colby, and he slapped Charlie's other shoulder, a brilliant smile of his own on his face, dark eyes dancing as he looked at Don. "When did you guys find out?"

Don's smile was muted. "Yesterday, for me, just an hour ago or so for Dad."

Alan smiled. "I'm glad you could come - I was in the mood for a celebration. Plus, I'd made enough lasagna for an army."

Charlie looked at him a little oddly. "Why did you make so much, anyway?"

Alan faltered, and a shadow passed over his face. "I figured eventually, that we would have a memorial, and people would be stopping by the house," he said quietly. "I was going to freeze it." His hand made an awkward little apologetic movement, as the odd look on Charlie's face intensified. Alan smiled, trying to break the sudden silence. "I have a much better reason for it now."

Colby was watching Charlie, trying to reconcile the image of him - standing there in the Craftsman - with the prone bloody figure in the ambulance. With a pang, he realized that he never expected Charlie to survive that; he'd been saddened but not the least bit surprised to hear Rogan tell him he was dead. For some reason, the recognition of that made him feel guilty. He'd given up on Charlie – too easily. He was keenly aware of Wilkes' eyes on him – and on everyone else in the room - studying, assessing.

The doorbell sounded again, and Masters, who was closest to the door, turned quickly, a bit defensively, as it opened and Ian Edgerton stuck his head through the gap. Ian's quick eyes scanned the men near the door before he pushed through. "You ought to tell your men in the shrubs to stay away from the windows," he said. "I could see their silhouettes-," he broke off suddenly as his eyes fell on Charlie, and characteristically, his surprise was barely evident, showing only as a single raised eyebrow, and the faint curl of a lip.

"Charlie Eppes," he said. "Welcome back. I always thought you were tougher than you looked."

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Alan pulled some kitchen chairs into the dining room and the group gathered around the table. Two steaming pans of lasagna sat in front of them, and Alan dished out hearty portions on plates. "There's plenty here," he said, bustling around, and the familiar sight of him in an apron, setting a plate in front of his younger brother, nearly brought tears to Don's eyes. He concentrated on separating a bite of lasagna from the mound on his plate, acutely aware of barely veiled scrutiny from Ian Edgerton, sitting beside him.

Don chewed and swallowed. "So why are you still here? You make up your mind to move to L.A?"

Ian deftly cut a bite with one side of his fork. "I'm working the Bishop case. They decided to put me on it – I was out here, and this was the last place they know he was."

Don shot him a sideways glance. "They're still assuming he killed Agent Tate? Do they have evidence that it was Bishop?"

Ian shook his head. "No – not for certain. Bishop seems to be covering his tracks, though – going after anyone he communicated with directly, associated with this case. First Dr. Allman, then Agent Tate."

Don shrugged. "So, if it was Bishop, he's more than likely long gone by now. You're probably spinning your wheels."

Ian eyed him speculatively; then his gaze shifted toward Charlie. "Not necessarily."

Don's eyes followed his; then swung away. It was still hard to be so close to Charlie. He felt as though he had ants crawling up his insides, and it had been a long day, filled with Charlie – Charlie at the hotel, Charlie on the plane, Charlie at the Craftsman, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie…

He was abruptly aware of Ian's eyes on him, and Don shifted his gaze to his plate quickly, wondering what had just been showing on his face. Ian's last phrase reverberated in his mind. They were assuming, of course, that Bishop might make a try for them – for him, and for Charlie. It didn't make sense, though, Don thought to himself. Neither he nor Charlie had ever seen Bishop; they'd only communicated with him by phone. The mystery man at Montreaux's estate couldn't have been Bishop, although that man could be working for Bishop, or with him – Bishop had been on the phone with them at the same time, calling the shots that day from his command post. It made sense that Bishop was involved somehow, but it didn't make sense that he would still be after them. The Montreaux cousins and the Iranian suspects were dead – they were the only ones who Charlie could link to the scheme. There was no way to link Bishop – so the man had no motive to kill them.

"What's on your mind?" Ian said softly, and Don realized he'd been staring into his lasagna as if it were an oracle.

Don sighed and shook his head. As he replied, he kept his voice down, under the conversation between Charlie, David and his father across the table. "I just don't see it. I don't think Bishop will come after us – why would he, with Jack and Pierre and the Iranians all dead? Neither Charlie or I ever saw him – and he couldn't have been the mystery man at the estate."

Ian chewed thoughtfully as Bill Masters, who had been listening to the last bit of conversation, spoke. "Maybe there's a connection between him and the mystery man that we don't understand. Charlie can still ID that person, whoever he is. Of course, the guy might have been a nobody – maybe just a bit player. If he _was_ someone important, though, and had a connection to Bishop somehow…," Master's voice trailed off, as his gaze shifted to Charlie. "I don't know. We have to talk to Conaghan about what comes next. We were planning on keeping you two under surveillance until the trial, but now there won't be a trial - unless we catch Bishop and link him to all this somehow."

"Or catch the mystery man," Ian reminded him. "Even if he's a nobody, he was in the room while they were discussing the deal with the Iranians. He knows the details, and he might know what the connection was to Bishop." He eyed Don. "My guess is, if the guy was a nobody this will all die down. Bishop won't try to save the skin of someone insignificant by trying to kill you – he'll just go after the guy himself, tie off the last loose end, and disappear. If, however, the nobody was a big player – say, someone more powerful than Bishop himself, we've still got problems. At the very least, he'll want Charlie out of the way, and he very well could use Bishop to do it."

Masters added softly, looking at Don. "Or he might try to use you."

Don's eyes flashed. "Like hell he will."

Masters raised a conciliatory hand. "I'm not saying he'd be successful. But think about it – Bishop thinks we don't know that those wires are still in your head, remember? He thinks that you, and us, all believe that the surgeon took them out. And he doesn't realize we added devices to tone down any signals he might send you. If time goes by and he doesn't try to contact you or make some other play, I think you and Charlie are probably safe. If he _does_ contact you, however, I'd bet Ian's correct – there's a big player still out there, and Charlie would be the last obstacle that would keep him from completely covering his tracks."

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After dinner, the group reconvened, for the most part, in the living room. Alan retreated to the kitchen long enough to load plates in the dishwasher, but he made it back into the room as soon as possible; loathe to give up any time in the same room with his sons. He kept pinching himself, afraid deep inside that he would wake, and it would all go away. It didn't, although Agent Wilkes kept reminding him of the uncomfortable fact that much of this was unsettled yet.

He found himself gazing at Charlie. His youngest was still recovering; it was apparent. He was thinner than Alan had ever seen him, and looked pale, tired, and glassy-eyed – in fact, he looked ready to collapse, Alan thought. He had a mind to shoo him up to bed, but Charlie was sitting – sitting was resting, after all - and face it, he told himself, he couldn't bear to let him go, just yet. He watched as Charlie's eyes traveled toward Don – he'd been doing that all evening. Some of the glances were furtive, a bit apprehensive. Some of them, however, were purposeful, as if Charlie was trying to encourage Don, to send him a message that things were okay.

A few times, Charlie's glances were reciprocated; Don looked back at him with a softness that Alan had never seen before, but more often, Don looked away, and a veil dropped over his face. When that happened he would fidget, or stand and pace a bit, and Alan surmised that Don was still working through what they had done to him. Or possibly, something worried or concerned him - Alan couldn't determine which. Either option was a little unsettling. The shock of losing both his boys – one to death and one to prison – was fresh in Alan's mind, and the idea that this might not be over sent his gut into a tailspin of apprehension.

He got up to get coffee – Colby and David were each drinking a celebratory beer, but the rest of them had refused alcohol. When he returned, he could hear Wilkes speaking to a small group, which included Masters, Rogan, and Don, who was scowling. Alan recognized that look from more than one teen argument. "We need to figure out where to put Don tonight," Wilkes was saying.

"That's easy," Charlie said flatly from the sofa. "He's staying in his room, here."

Wilkes started to shake his head, but Masters interceded. "It would be much easier to keep watch on them both here," he said. "It would be tough to keep good surveillance on his apartment unit without alerting his neighbors."

Wilkes made an expression of disapproval. "I don't like it. He's had far too much -," he paused and looked at Charlie, "exposure - today already. If he has to stay here, he should at least stay downstairs."

Don looked as though he were about to agree, but Charlie's eyes flashed. "That's ridiculous," he said, and the sharp intake of breath made him cough, briefly. "He has a room at the top of the stairs," he looked at Don steadily, "it's always been his. He's staying there."

Don looked at Charlie with gratitude, although Alan noticed that Colby and David were shifting uncomfortably. Clearly, the topic, and the insinuation that Don still couldn't be trusted, didn't sit well with them. Alan couldn't blame them – it didn't sit well with him, either. He was torn between the desire to trust Don, to have things as they used to be, and the need to be sure that Charlie was safe. He had to admit, he didn't know what the right thing was, any more than the rest of them – except for Charlie. Charlie seemed sure – more sure than Don was, which was a bit disturbing.

Colby and David exchanged a glance; then David said, "I think we're going to be heading out – you guys had a long day already." He glanced at Charlie when he said that; Charlie was coughing again, and his pallor appeared more pronounced. David's eyes flicked to Alan Eppes. "Thanks for dinner – and," a grin spread across his face as he looked back and Don and Charlie, "welcome back to you both."

Charlie wiped his eyes and struggled to his feet to bid them good-bye, and Don and Alan stepped forward as Colby set his empty beer down on the coffee table. Just as he turned, Charlie swayed dangerously, and Colby shot out a hand to support him. Don darted to Charlie's other side, and for a moment he and Colby faced each other, their gaze meeting over the top of Charlie's head. Colby could have sworn there was an ugly look in Don's eyes, but it was gone in a flash, the expression gone so fast that he couldn't really even put a name on it, and his attention was captured by Charlie, who had sagged against him.

"Whoa there, Whiz Kid," he said, grabbing him with both arms. Don reluctantly released his grip as Colby eased Charlie back onto the sofa, feeling oddly protective. 'Now _that's a weird thought_,' Colby thought to himself. '_Protecting him from what?_' As he straightened, he caught a glimpse of Wilkes, standing in the corner, studying them.

Colby looked at Don, who now was looking down at Charlie with nothing but concern on his face. '_Whew, you're imagining things here, Granger,_' Colby thought, as Don and Alan helped Charlie to his feet, and steered him toward the stairs. '_It's that Wilkes guy – he's got everyone freaked out._'

"Excuse us for a minute," Alan called over his shoulder. "We're going to get him up to bed."

"I can walk myself," Charlie was saying irritably, but neither Alan nor Don relinquished their grips, keeping a tight hold as they guided him up the stairs. Colby watched the three of them go, with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

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Charlie just barely made it to his bed; by the time he got there Alan and Don were holding most of his weight, nearly dragging him, and just as they reached the edge of the bed, Charlie collapsed completely, his eyes rolling back in his head. Don grabbed him under the shoulders and Alan took his legs, and they swiftly deposited him on the bed – it was easier than Don would have expected – too easy. He could feel Charlie's ribs under his hands; it was painfully obvious, in spite of the oversized T-shirt, how much weight his brother had lost.

Alan hovered over his youngest with a panicked expression. "I'm calling the doctor," he said, but even as he spoke, Charlie's eyelids fluttered open. His breathing was rapid and shallow, but it was already beginning to modulate, and Alan grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and dabbed gently at Charlie's forehead, which was covered with beads of sweat. Alan looked up at Don. "Do they have a doctor on call for him, or do I need to find one?"

"I don't know," murmured Don, backing toward the doorway. "I'll find out."

"I'm fine," croaked Charlie, but his weak voice made him into a prevaricator. "Wait."

Don paused, but didn't approach the bedside; he was looking uncomfortable again, uncertain. Charlie looked at him steadily, his chest still rising and falling in an effort to catch his breath. "I don't care what Wilkes says," he said. "You're doing fine – just stay in your own room tonight, okay?"

It wasn't a command – it was almost a plea, and Don nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay." He turned abruptly and headed out the door, and Charlie watched him go with a slight frown on his face.

Alan sank on to the bed beside him, his own face creased with worry as he laid a hand on Charlie's forehead. "You feel warm. I'm still going to call a doctor."

"I'm fine, Dad," Charlie said quietly. "It was just a long day – I'm tired." He coughed a bit again and winced, and then his expression cleared. "I'm just glad to be home – glad that Don's here with us."

Alan's face softened. "Amen to that. There were a few days there where I thought the world had ended. It was a shock to find out about what they had done to Don – but a relief, too, to know he hadn't done it of his own will, to know he hadn't gone insane. That was only half the story, however – the other half came home to me tonight." He smiled gently, and caressed Charlie's forehead, pretending to push aside a nonexistent curl, just to touch him.

Charlie closed his eyes at the touch, relaxing into it, and suddenly, the realization hit him hard, in the gut. He was _home_, Don was here; everything was going to be okay…before he could stop it, a tear of gratitude slipped out of his eye.

"Are you okay, son?" he heard Alan ask softly, and he opened his eyes to see his father's face, shining with tears of his own.

"Yeah," Charlie said, smiling wearily. "I'm okay, now."

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End Chapter 42

_A/N: Things are getting back to normal, or are they... _


	43. Chapter 43

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 43**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Your reviews are much appreciated. This is a long one…_

* * *

After leaving Charlie's room, Don slowly walked down the hallway, pausing just briefly at his bedroom door. A memory, razor-sharp, flashed into his brain. He was standing, with one foot on the bed, strapping a knife sheath to his leg… He shuddered, and moved toward the stairs.

The emotions were still rampaging through him. When Charlie had nearly collapsed at the sofa, he'd charged forward with a feeling of protectiveness so strong that when Colby grabbed Charlie, too, Don had to fight the urge to deck the junior agent. That feeling, and a sensation of deep concern, went with him as he helped his father escort Charlie upstairs, but as soon as they were in the room other feelings intruded. Vivid memories surfaced – the last time he was in Charlie's room, he'd tried to choke him to death. The memory had been murky until he was actually in the bedroom, but the familiar setting brought it into stark clarity so powerfully that he could feel the sensations of rage beginning to surface. He'd backed toward the door, just as Charlie asked him – no, begged him - to stay in his own room. Charlie, it seemed, was as desperate for things to be normal again as Don was. The problem was, Wilkes was right, Don wasn't normal – not yet.

His desire for normalcy was as strong as Charlie's was, maybe even more so, and so was the need to prove himself. He could do this, he told himself. In spite of Wilkes' warnings, he'd spent a whole day with his brother, without incident. Nighttime should be easy compared to that; he would be in a different room, and oblivious to the world. There was really no reason why he shouldn't spend it in the comfort of his old bed.

He found the others - minus Colby and David, who had gone - huddled in the living room around Rogan's cell phone, and he could hear Conaghan's voice coming through the speaker. "I hear what you're saying, Agent Masters, and I feel the same way. It bugs the hell out of me that we haven't been able to identify the man that Charlie saw at the Montreaux estate. We'll leave surveillance on for now, certainly – although this may be over. The hit at the prison had all the earmarks of a terrorist connection, including the Middle Eastern plant who carried it out. My guess is it was Khalid, trying to cover his tracks."

FBI Director Dave Maxwell's voice floated out of the speaker. "I have to agree with that. If Khalid can ascertain that anyone who could testify against him was dead, then he'll be free to move about the rest of the world without fear that some other government would hand him over to us - there will be no solid charge against him. Besides Khalid, the only other people that we would need to account for would be our mystery man and Joe Bishop. Agent Edgerton, any progress on Bishop?"

"None, sir. If he did kill Agent Tate, he's made himself scarce since then. I'm still on it."

"How's Agent Eppes doing?" Maxwell spoke again, obviously unaware that Don had joined the group.

"I'm fine, sir, thanks for asking," Don replied.

"Good, glad to hear it," Maxwell responded, just a trifle too heartily. "And Charlie?"

"He's good – he's pretty worn out, we just helped him up to bed, but he seems okay."

Conaghan's voice came over the phone. "Agent Eppes, how do you feel about keeping that hardware in your head for a little while longer? Maybe another few weeks, just to be certain that they don't try to contact you? I think the chances of that are getting less as time goes on, but I have to admit, I was sure Bishop would try something. Why else would he have gone to the risk of threatening your surgeon and his family?"

"I agree, sir," Don replied levelly. "I want to catch the bastard as much as anybody, and if leaving the equipment in place will help, I'm all for it." As he spoke, he could sense Wilkes' gaze, ever-present, appraising, judging.

"Good," said Conaghan. "All right, gentlemen, you have your marching orders - surveillance on the Eppes family until further notice. Charlie Eppes is the most at risk – you are to limit his excursions outside the house. I'm sure he's still recuperating, anyway."

Maxwell spoke up. "Don, you too - you're allowed at the office, but you need to travel with protection. You have permission to work the Bishop case with Ian, but you will not return to your regular assignments until the wiring is removed. Is that clear?"

'_In other words, you don't have a problem using me, but you still don't trust me,_' Don thought sourly. He didn't care, though – at this particular point in time, his one goal in life was to get to Bishop and whoever else might be behind this, and they were allowing him to participate in that part of it. His voice was expressionless. "Yes, sir, that's clear."

"Good," Conaghan spoke. "Agents Rogan and Masters, Dave Maxwell and I want a daily update, even if there's nothing to report. Agents Wilkes and Edgerton, you can join them."

Conaghan didn't specify, but there was only one reason for Wilkes to join the meeting, Don knew, and that was to report on him – on his progress. He pushed the thought aside, and listened as Conaghan continued. "Ian, you're to get us word directly if you make any progress on the Bishop case. We'll talk tomorrow evening." He signed off, and silence settled.

Don felt suddenly exhausted – he wasn't in the mood to talk about the case, and was so tired, he couldn't even think straight. He could feel a throbbing headache starting, and he rose, wearily. "I think I'm heading up," he said, and turned and made for the staircase before anyone could say anything.

He was expecting a protest from Wilkes, but the man just let him go, calling after him, "I'll be downstairs here tonight, if you need me." His voice was mild, friendly, almost, but Don could feel his eyes on his back, all the way up the stairs.

* * *

The blackness came to Don in the middle of the night. Hatred came seeping, curling into the corners of his soul like black smoke. Along with it came rage, so potent and poisonous that it made him sit upright in bed, panting. All he could think of was Charlie, lying in the room next to him, still alive, when he should be dead. He should have strangled him the first time, he realized, instead of listening to the voices. If he'd choked him to death instead of trying to stab him, he'd be gone already. He could strangle him now, creep quietly into his room, and finally end his miserable life. He'd spent a whole day pandering to him, trying to stifle the disgust in his heart, and he could bear it no longer. The time had come – he didn't care what happened to him afterward, as long as he was free of that curly-headed blight.

The floor felt cool on his feet, as he padded quietly across his room and slipped out the door. There he stood for a moment, swaying slightly in the darkness, like a cobra ready to strike, waiting, listening. The house was dark and silent, and he moved down the hallway, clenching and unclenching his fists. Charlie's door opened smoothly with the almost nonexistent whisper of oiled hinges, and he eased inside and approached the bed. Charlie was lying there soundly asleep, on his back, positioned as if waiting for him. Don stood there for a moment as the emotions swirled inside him, and then with a single swift movement, straddled his brother's body and put his hands around his throat.

Charlie jerked and his whole body went rigid, his eyes flying open, black pits of darkness discernable even in the dimness of the room. Slivers of silver moonlight seeped around the edges of the shades, enough so that Don could see the oddly satisfying look of panic on his brother's face, as he tightened his grip. He could feel his fingers on the cordlike muscles in the back of Charlie's neck, feel his thumbs pressing over the Adam's apple, feel Charlie's windpipe caving in, crushing under the pressure as he bore down with his thumbs with all his might. And Charlie's body, flailing helplessly underneath him, spasms racking it as he lived the agony of his final moments…

"You okay?"

He heard Wilkes' voice behind him, and Don jerked and blinked, trying to orient himself. He was standing in the dark hallway outside his room, bathed in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, and he could feel the sharp sensation of panic surge through him. Dear God, what had he done? He'd been dreaming – just dreaming, he told himself desperately, but then why was he standing out here? Had he really done it – or had he been on his way to Charlie's room? The dream flashed luridly through his mind, and he could feel nausea rising inside him. "I don't feel all that great," he muttered. '_Charlie_,' he thought desperately, '_need to get him to check on Charlie. Need to make sure he's okay…_' "I was on my way to the bathroom, and I thought I heard Charlie," he said, and his voice cracked on the name.

He heard his father's door open as he spoke, and then Alan's voice, calm and steady, floated through the dark hallway. "I'll check on him," said Alan. "I was planning on checking on him periodically anyway – I'm still worrying that he has a fever."

Don nodded, even though no one could see it in the darkness, and stepped forward on rubbery knees for the bathroom. He closed the door, but left it ajar about six inches so he could hear, and turned on the cold water, splashing his face. He shuddered at the sensation, but kept dashing the icy wetness against his face, as if self-flagellating. "Please, God," he whispered, "let him be all right."

He heard Alan's voice in the hallway, just outside his door. "He's okay," he said, "but I think he's running a slight fever. He was moaning in his sleep – that's probably what you heard, Donnie. He woke up when I spoke to him, and he answered back - he's fine."

"Okay," choked Don, and grabbed a hand towel, burying his face in it as hot tears stung his eyes. He _wasn't_ normal, he was anything but normal… He heard Alan talking softly to Wilkes about getting a doctor to make a house call in the morning, and when Don heard him shuffle to his room and shut the door, he wiped his face one last time, and slipped out of the bathroom.

He could hear Wilkes descending the stairs as he went into his room, but Don didn't pause; he went straight for his bed and grabbed the comforter and his pillow, and headed downstairs after him.

Wilkes was lying on a cot in the living room, and he propped himself up on one elbow, watching as Don made for the sofa and collapsed onto it, pulling the comforter over him. "Are you okay?" Wilkes asked again, his eyes glinting in the half-light, and Don shuddered.

"Just don't let me go upstairs," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Don woke as the first light of dawn filtered into the living room. The remainder of his night had been filled with conflicting dreams, most of them involving Charlie. In one, he'd frantically driven a stabbed and bleeding Charlie to the hospital, in another, he'd chased him through the trees. It was that one which woke him – they were in a forest filled with gray mist, and Charlie was running from him. Don was chasing him, running as fast as he could, desperate to catch him, although he wasn't sure why. As he woke to the grayness in the room, which seemed to reflect the setting of his dream, he probed his thoughts, trying to figure out whether he'd been chasing Charlie to hurt him, or to help him.

"So what happened last night?"

Wilkes was lying there on the cot, looking at him, his face bland and eyes watchful, and Don thought, '_Damn it, doesn't he ever stop?_' but he said, "I think I was dreaming."

He turned his head, and stared up at the ceiling, avoiding Wilkes' gaze. "Must have been a good one," said Wilkes, "to chase you downstairs."

Don felt his eyes sting again, as fear and frustration rose inside him. "I dreamed I choked him to death," he blurted, his voice sounding strangled itself. "When I woke up, I was standing in the hallway; I didn't know if I had dreamed it or not."

"And how did you feel, in the dream, while you were doing it?"

Don closed his eyes. "I wanted him dead," he whispered. "It was like before – I hated him so much, I didn't care what happened afterward."

There was a split second of silence as Wilkes processed that, and then he said, "You might not want to believe this, but that's a perfectly normal reaction to yesterday. You spent the whole day – and it was a long one – suppressing any negative emotions you had concerning your brother, and only allowing the good ones to surface. What happened last night was backlash – as soon as you fell asleep, your subconscious took over, and spewed out all those pent up feelings. It probably didn't help, being in this house, being in his bedroom, when the last thing you did there before yesterday was try to strangle him."

Don blinked, and frowned. "You knew I tried to do that?"

Wilkes nodded. "We saw everything. You not only had the camera in your jacket, remember, we had cameras put in the house." He paused. "Don, I know that last night was frightening, and it's one of the reasons I've been warning you not to push this. You have tremendous strength of will, and you've had a lot of practice at suppressing your feelings. That makes you extremely hard to read and your actions hard to predict – even for you. I recommend that you spend some time with Charlie each day, but just a little to start, and gradually work up to more as we work on reversing your programming. If you'd done that to begin with, you probably wouldn't have experienced a dream like last night's – at least not one so intense."

Don nodded. Suddenly, Wilkes' advice sounded right – he needed to get out of there, he needed to get away – and before Charlie woke up. He was suddenly afraid to face him – afraid of what he might think or do when he saw him. He rose and swung his legs over the side of the sofa. "Yeah, let's go. I'll go back to my apartment, get a shower – maybe go into the office for a while."

Wilkes sat up on his cot. "You can probably get a shower here, and then go straight to the office," he said. "It would make it easier on the surveillance team."

Don shook his head. "No. I want to go. Now." He headed for the stairs. "I'm going to run up and grab my shoes – I'll be right back down."

Wilkes watched him go, with a speculative frown on his face.

* * *

Charlie stirred and moaned in his sleep. Had there been anyone in the room with him, they would have seen him twitch and writhe slightly. His breath was rapid, shallow, and under his lids, his eyes darted back and forth so fast, they appeared to be vibrating. With a sudden deep gasp, he jerked, and blinked awake, panting, staring at the ceiling in his bedroom. Early morning light sifted around the sides of the window shades, and he coughed, then winced, as he tried to orient himself. He'd been dreaming – it was dim, foggy, and there were trees around him – it reminded him of the swamp in Louisiana. He'd been running from something, running for his life through the trees, and he could dimly remember Don's voice behind him. Almost immediately, a conscious memory intruded – of Don in this very room, his face twisted with hate, choking the life out of him.

He remembered Wilkes saying something about manipulating them both, getting him to run to the FBI offices so the murder could be carried out in public, and it made him realize that they had probably stopped Don from choking him that night so he _could_ run – and made him wonder what would have happened if they hadn't. He shuddered, and pushed the thought out of his mind. It was over, done. History. It wouldn't do either of them any good to think about things like that.

And yet, in this weak moment, he did. In spite of Wilkes saying how hard Don had fought the programming, he also mentioned that he knew that Charlie and Don had "issues." How would he have known that, if Don hadn't admitted it? Charlie had never felt very secure about their relationship to begin with, and if they'd turned Don so completely… maybe it hadn't been as difficult as Wilkes thought – maybe there was real hatred under Don's everyday demeanor. His brother played his emotions so close to the vest, Charlie never knew what he really thought, what he really felt. Add to that the fact that Charlie probably had irreparably damaged what there was of their relationship by insisting on taking the undercover assignment, and …oh, hell, there was more than that, Charlie realized suddenly. He'd never gotten the chance to tell Don about the party at the Montreaux estate, and what he'd found out from Charlotte afterward – that he hadn't slept with her, hadn't even snorted cocaine. Don went into the programming already disgusted and angry with him, Charlie was sure. Maybe the behavior they'd provoked hadn't been such a stretch.

The fact was, he'd always felt at a disadvantage in the relationship, always felt as though he were pursing something he couldn't quite reach. He remembered telling his father once that Don 'let him' work on cases – he could have been describing their relationship. Don only 'let him' get close when he wanted, on his terms – and Charlie kept hoping for those moments. It was frustrating and irritating, and left Charlie, who normally had a healthy sense of self-confidence, always feeling unsure, at least in that aspect of his life. Now Wilkes was saying that he could_ probably_ reverse the programming. _Probably._ And even if he did, Charlie still didn't know what that meant.

Still, he was desperate for things to get back to the way they were – at least to seem normal, even if he didn't know how Don really felt, inside. That desperation had made him hang on Don's every statement the day before, every gesture, every inflection in a tone, every nuance in a choice of words. Searching, searching for what? Some shred of evidence that his brother still cared, or at least, had once cared; some bit of hope that would start to mend his shattered psyche – that would erase the horrible pictures in his mind. Now that he was beginning to heal physically, and was coming out of the fog of pain and painkillers, those pictures were re-asserting themselves – the horror of those moments were growing fresher, rather than dimmer, and they left him feeling uncertain, afraid, his confidence in pieces. That shred of hope that Don was coming back to them was the only thing holding him together, right now.

He ran a tongue over dry, cracked lips, and tried to take a deep breath, grimacing, coughing yet again as he did so. He felt horrible – weak, dizzy, hot. His head ached, and his chest complained at every movement. He needed aspirin, he thought, or acetaminophen, or ibuprofen – something to ease the pain without making him groggy. He had stronger stuff with him – Martha had sent it with him to Washington, along with antibiotics that he hadn't taken for two days. He should probably take those, he thought, but he didn't want the painkillers. He wanted to have a clear head, to be able to talk to Don if Don wanted to talk…

He sat up and pushed the covers aside, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He'd get some aspirin and an antibiotic, and go see if Don was up. The room spun crazily as he stood, and he leaned back against the bed for support for a moment. Then he tottered for the door.

* * *

"Charlie!" Alan looked in shock at the apparition the doorway. Charlie truly looked frightening – a skinny pale scarecrow with dark stubble and wild hair, his eyes glassy with dark smudges underneath. He raised a hand to rub his temple, and in the daylight, Alan could see marks on the underside of his arm, two thin pink lines, and with a shock and a wave of nausea, he realized they were healing stab wounds. "Charlie, you shouldn't be out of bed," he admonished, heading toward him, taking his arm, and steering him back out to the sofa. "I have a doctor coming to the house – and you look terrible. Come here, lie down."

He situated Charlie on the sofa and his son didn't complain; in fact, he looked shaky, and grateful to lie down. Alan wondered how much effort it had taken for him to make it downstairs, as he watched Charlie frown and finger the comforter that he'd pulled over him.

"This is Don's comforter, right?" he said. "I thought he was still in bed. His door was shut."

Alan shook his head. "No, he left early – went to his apartment to shower and change, and then he's going into work. In fact, I didn't even see him – he left a note. Wilkes went with him, and so did Agent Masters."

Charlie looked deflated, disappointment evident in his face. He craned his neck to look at the cot, and then frowned again at the comforter. "He didn't sleep in his room last night?"

Alan shook his head. "I don't know. He started out there, but he must have come down here at some point. Wilkes was down here, sleeping on the cot. I put Rogan and Masters up in the solarium." That suspicion had disturbed him too, as had finding Don and Wilkes out in the hallway last night, but he'd set it aside. No sense worrying until he talked to them and found out what had happened. More than likely Don had gotten up to go to the bathroom, and Wilkes, as paranoid as he was, had gone up to check on the noise. Or maybe, Wilkes simply needed to use the bathroom himself. There were any number of explanations.

His thoughts were diverted by the doorbell, and when he went to open the front door, he found a graying, middle-aged man with a bag on the doorstep. "Dr. Penn," he said, holding out his hand. As Alan took it, Penn said, "The agency sent me. I've already been cleared." Behind him, one of the protection detail gave Alan a brief nod, and faded away around the corner of the house.

"Come in," said Alan, "he's right here."

Charlie was struggling to sit up as Dr. Penn approached, and the man smiled reassuringly. "Dr. Eppes – how are you today?"

"Okay," said Charlie. His dark eyes were an odd mix of frustration and resignation – as if he was both dreading and irritated by the pending examination. "I could use some ibuprofen."

"Let's get a temp first," Penn said, inserting a thermometer in his ear. Alan watched the man's face; it was expressionless as he announced, "One hundred and one point four."

He flipped open a chart and made a note, then read for second or two. "It says here that you were prescribed an antibiotic by Dr. Martha Bodman. Have you been taking it?"

Charlie flushed a little, guiltily. "Actually, I was, up until two days ago. I was pretty busy – just forgot."

The doctor raised his brows. "You need to follow the recommended dosage. I want you to finish the medication, and we'll check you again. If that doesn't work, I'll need to put you on a different antibiotic, but I need you to finish what you have, first. If you would remove your shirt, please, I'd like to listen to your chest."

Charlie shot an apprehensive look at Alan, and hesitated, briefly, before dropping his eyes, and slowly pulling off his T-shirt. Alan recognized immediately that his son was uncomfortable and began to turn toward the kitchen to give him some privacy, but not fast enough. As his eyes caught sight of Charlie's chest, his breath hitched. Based on his look at Charlie's arm, he'd expected a stab wound or two, but not so many of them. At least a half-dozen marks dotted his chest, and the location of the worst looking scar was directly over his son's heart, a deep purple scar, not yet faded, that stared back like a malevolent eye. Alan felt a sudden roaring in his ears as an unbidden picture came to his mind – how the event must have transpired - the knife slashing, again and again. '_How on earth could anyone survive that?_' he wondered dimly, and at the same time, tried to stifle the horrific vision of his eldest, wielding the knife. As Charlie lifted his head to look at him, Alan realized belatedly that he was just standing there, staring. Charlie's gaze met his, and Alan knew that the horror in his expression must have been evident; their eyes locked for just a moment, shared pain screaming in the silence, and then Charlie looked away.

* * *

End Chapter 43

_A/N: I originally had Don's dream positioned as a cliff-hanger, but rethought that – it sounded too real, and even I wasn't mean enough to do that to you. :)__ So I took out a chapter break and redid things. It made for one less chapter in the story, and a couple of longer chapters in this section. Someone asked how long the story was – although I took out a chapter, I discovered I had duplicated the numbers in two places. Originally, I thought it was 68, the two extra would have brought it to 70, but the removal took it back to sixty-nine. I still have some editing to do in upcoming chapters, but I think the 69 number will hold_.

_Yes, it was just a dream - not that the threat is over, by any means..._


	44. Chapter 44

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 44**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, folks. Here's my usual Friday post. _

* * *

"Okay, yeah, I'll see you in a little while." Don hung up the phone, and leaned back at his desk with a sigh, Robin's warm voice still resonating in his ear.

He hadn't been sure how he would handle going back to the office, and on the elevator ride up that morning had nearly changed his mind. He still couldn't face the glass-walled conference room, although the quick glance that he had stolen as he approached his desk showed him that it had been cleaned, new carpet put in and the door repaired. In fact, it looked as though nothing had ever happened there, although every time Don looked that way, he was reminded that he'd been only a few millimeters away from being a murderer.

He heard motion behind him, and glanced sideways as Wilkes brushed past and leaned up against the desk next to him. Wilkes glanced at his watch. "Nearly four o'clock. Had enough for the day? We should probably spend a little time with Charlie, and I'd like to get a deprogramming session in before it gets too late."

Don glanced away from him, and riffled the papers on his desk. "I'm not going to Charlie's," he said, as Masters came up and stood next to Wilkes. "I'm going to Robin's for a while, and then going to my apartment."

Wilkes frowned. "I said you should limit your exposure to Charlie," he said quietly, "not eliminate it. And you haven't had a proper session with the monitoring equipment in days."

Don shrugged, a bit irritably. "I think you'd be the first one to admit I need a break," he muttered, "after last night."

Masters looked from one of them to the other. "What happened last night?"

"I'll tell you later," murmured Wilkes.

"Anyway," said Masters, "what you're proposing is complicated, protection-wise. We hadn't planned on setting up a detail at your apartment, much less your girlfriend's place."

Don stood and shot him a glare. "Well, you'd better figure it out," he said, "because I'm leaving in a half hour." Without another word, he stalked away.

"What's with him?" growled Masters, but Wilkes treated the question as rhetorical and didn't reply. The fact was, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

Instead, he sighed. "Unless you guys took them out, there are probably still cameras in his apartment. Maybe your protection detail can tie into those. It would let you monitor him from outside the building – it wouldn't be as obvious as trying to station people inside.

Masters rubbed his jaw. "Yeah – that's a good idea. We never took the cameras out of Dr. Eppes' house either – we found them there, but never got around to removing them. It might be a good idea to get them out of there – at least in the downstairs area, where we've been holding our meetings."

Wilkes nodded. "I think the only ones that were removed were the ones in the offices, here."

"We could patch into the ones that are left," Masters agreed. "It would make surveillance a little easier, especially at Don's apartment. The house is a little different story - with all the men so close by, we might not need them, and we should definitely take out the ones on the first floor."

Wilkes face darkened. "It might not hurt to leave some on the second floor – especially the camera in Don Eppes' bedroom." At that, he stalked away, leaving Masters staring after him.

* * *

Charlie's head came up at the knock at the front door, and he hurriedly shifted into a sitting posture from his prone position on the sofa. His gaze turned hopeful as Wilkes emerged in the doorway, and then fell as Wilkes shut the door behind him. "Where's Don?" he asked, as Alan pushed out of the kitchen. "It's after six – he's not still at the office?"

Wilkes looked at the two men, facing him expectantly. "He went to Robin Brooks' apartment," he said. "Bill Masters went along – they've got protection set up outside her place. He said he would probably stay a couple of hours."

He watched Charlie's face relax. "He's coming here, then, afterward." It was a statement, not a question.

Wilkes shook his head. "He wants to stay at his apartment tonight." He watched Charlie's face fall again, and couldn't help but feel professional interest. The man had been stabbed - nearly killed by his brother - and seemed to want nothing more than to have that brother around him. Even considering the brainwashing, not many people would be that forgiving, and Wilkes surmised that Charlie's reaction was prompted by one of two things – either he was a saint, or his relationship with his brother was riddled with need, or guilt, or some other less-than-healthy emotions. Wilkes personally didn't believe in saints.

"We already had dinner – would you care for something to eat?" asked Alan. He smiled, deprecatingly. "It's just lasagna leftovers, I'm afraid."

"Yes, thanks, that would be great," said Wilkes, and he followed Alan into the kitchen with a sidelong glance at Charlie, who slumped back against the sofa with a look that was part irritation, part dejection. Jonathan really didn't want dinner so much as a chance to talk privately to Alan, although as he stepped in and caught the odor of food, his stomach rumbled. Alan wasted no time heating a chunk of lasagna the size of a small house, and Wilkes dug into it appreciatively right where he stood.

"Here, sit down," urged Alan, pulling out a chair. He got two glasses of water, and sat himself, as Wilkes lowered himself into a chair. The senior Eppes watched him for a moment. "Did you and Don get a chance for – I guess you'd call it therapy, today?"

Wilkes swallowed a mouthful and shook his head. "No. I urged him to, but he said he needed a break."

"A break!" A look of outraged consternation appeared on Alan's face. Wilkes had the feeling that venting about one of his sons to a stranger was normally the last thing that Alan Eppes would do, and that suspicion was verified as he saw the flush of embarrassment appear right after the words – Alan was clearly regretting his small outburst.

Still, he could see anger and hurt in the older man's eyes, and he hastened to say, "It's probably a good idea – he was with Charlie all day yesterday, which was much more exposure than he should have had, at this point."

Alan snorted. "You make Charlie sound like some kind of poison. I thought they did both did fine."

"You thought that because you wanted to think it," Wilkes responded quietly. "The fact was; it was more than Don could handle. He spent the entire day repressing emotions, and paid for it when he went to bed last night."

The anger faded from Alan's face, and was replaced by concern. "Yes – I meant to ask you about that. I came out to find you both in the hallway. He mumbled something about hearing Charlie, but I wondered if there was more to it. What was that about?"

"He had a very vivid, disturbing dream, which prompted him to sleep-walk. I actually woke him in the hallway."

"Sleep-walk?"

Wilkes laid down his fork and leaned forward. "Yes. I believe he was on his way to Charlie's room."

Alan frowned in confusion. "Charlie's room?" He shook his head, a little defiantly. "So what's so wrong with that? He said he thought he'd heard him – he was going to check on him."

Wilkes looked at him soberly. "He wasn't going to check on him. He was dreaming that he entered Charlie's room and choked him to death. When I woke him, he was very disoriented – it had seemed so real to him that he wasn't even sure if he'd done it or not." Alan had turned pale, stricken silent, and Wilkes continued. "Now you see why I say it's important not to push this. I doubt that would have happened if Don hadn't forced the issue and spent the entire day with Charlie yesterday. He was pretty rattled by what happened, and I guess I can't blame him if he needs some time away. On the other hand, it _is_ important for him to get back to therapy sessions – we had just barely gotten started a week or so ago when he got called away to testify. If giving him a night off will help him get his head where it needs to be in order to continue, then that's what we need to do."

"Yes," said Alan faintly. "I suppose you're right."

"Actually," said Wilkes, digging into his lasagna again, "I really came here to talk to Charlie. I have some insights on their relationship already, but only from Don's point of view. It would probably be very helpful for me to get the other half of the picture. I get the impression that in spite of being brothers, they really don't understand each other that well."

Alan grunted softly. "And I'd say you probably hit that nail on the head." He fell silent for a moment; then looked up at Wilkes, anxiously. "He'll get there, though, won't he? Donnie? I thought you said, when you first told us about what had been done to him, that you thought the chances for reversing the programming completely were good."

"Yes," conceded Wilkes. "I did. I still do – but we won't know for sure for some time yet."

"How long?"

"I can't tell you that," Wilkes said, shaking his head. "Probably at least a month, maybe longer."

"A month," Alan repeated softly. He looked up. "Well, we'll just have to deal with it, for however long it takes."

Wilkes nodded approvingly. "If both of your boys have that attitude, we'll get there," he said, trying to look encouraging. In fact, he couldn't say himself if that last statement were true – they hadn't done many programming reversals, and had been less than consistently successful with the ones they had attempted. He wasn't about to tell the Eppes men that, at least not yet, however. Part of their chances for success depended on their belief that Don Eppes would eventually return to normal.

He found Charlie in the same position on the sofa a few moments later, abstractedly flicking the remote through television channels set on 'mute.' Wilkes pulled an armchair closer to him and sat, studying Charlie, who remained obstinately silent, pretending to focus on a soundless television. "How are you feeling? Your dad said you had a fever earlier."

"A little better," Charlie conceded, without taking his eyes from the television. "I think the antibiotic is working." Silence descended for a moment; then he looked at Wilkes. "So, do you think he'll be over tomorrow? What is it you have to do, yet, anyway, some kind of therapy? And when are they going to take those wires out of his head?"

"They'll take them out, eventually," said Wilkes. "They're dormant right now – there is no current being applied. They're not impeding his deprogramming, if that's what you're worried about."

Charlie scowled. "I'm not worried about his deprogramming; I'm worried about his health."

Wilkes raised an eyebrow. "So you don't care if he gets deprogrammed or not?"

The scowl deepened, and Charlie looked away. "I didn't say that."

"Maybe you don't care because your relationship wasn't all that hot to begin with."

Charlie's eyes flashed, and he glared at Wilkes. "It was fine. He was probably kind of pissed at me over the undercover assignment, but once we have a chance to talk, I'm sure we'll straighten it out."

Wilkes pursed his lips. "Pissed at you?"

"I talked him into it," said Charlie grudgingly. "He didn't want to take it, and I did. I told him he didn't have to go, but he wouldn't let me go alone." His face softened, his eyes, tinged with regret, wandered away. "I have to admit, I wanted him along."

"Why?"

The eyes wandered back, and Charlie sighed. "You're right; we didn't have a great relationship. We were never very close as kids, and then we spent years apart after high school. By the time he moved back here, we were nearly strangers. We've been working together for the past five years, though, and it's been getting better."

"And you wanted that relationship."

Charlie shrugged silently.

"That's why you wanted him along, didn't you? It was a big adventure for the two of you, a chance for you to bond. You've looked up to him all your life – you need him to recognize you, to reciprocate that affection, at least a little." Wilkes' voice rose slightly, laced with conviction, as he saw his guess hit home. Charlie looked surprised; then shifted uncomfortably.

Wilkes smiled wryly. "You don't need to look astonished – I'm not a mind reader. That's a classic sibling relationship; it's common for the younger one to idolize the elder, either overtly or subconsciously. Don't forget, Don and I spent several hours discussing you; it was impossible not to learn something. Knowing what I already know about Don, and hearing what you just said, and above all looking at how you're reacting to this situation, it wasn't much of a stretch."

Charlie frowned. "How I'm reacting? I think I'm reacting just fine."

"Oh, yeah, just fine," retorted Wilkes, sardonically. "He nearly kills you; and you all but fall over your feet to let him know you're not in the least bit upset. Now _that's_ some healthy behavior."

"You're a fine one to talk!" Charlie retorted heatedly. "You did that to him, and you're lecturing me on healthy behavior?"

Wilkes hitched his chair a little closer, and leaned forward, a gleam in his yes. He was finally seeing some anger from the younger Eppes, and he pushed a little harder. "Oh, so it's okay to be angry with me, but not with him."

"Why not?" snapped Charlie. His dark eyes were blazing in his pale face, and his breath was coming faster. "It's not like it was his fault – you said so yourself."

Wilkes rose. He had to remember Dr. Eppes wasn't all that well, and he'd already upset him more than he should. He'd gotten some insight, though, and a reaction – now he'd leave him something to ponder. He jabbed a finger at Charlie. "You're submerging all your feelings because you don't want to rock the boat. You're upset, and let's face it, you're still afraid of him - you're afraid that if you're anything but pleasant or compliant, you'll set him off again. And you know what – at this point, you're probably right. I'm good with that – we certainly shouldn't try to provoke him. What bothers me about you, Charlie, is that I don't see any signs of normal emotions on your part, like fear or anger, even though both of them are there, underneath. You keep trying to act as if it never happened. I agree that it's not his fault, but it's not yours either. Self-blame isn't healthy, and neither is neediness, desperation, or denial. If you're going to help him – and yourself – you need to deal with your own feelings, not bury them." He nodded, curtly. "Something to think about. I'll let myself out."

He closed the door behind him with a last glance at the morose figure on the sofa, scowling at the soundless television set.

* * *

Don buried his face in Robin's hair, and inhaled. It was the first moment of his day that felt truly normal, and the realization made his eyes sting a little. He held her there, closely, until he collected himself, and then pulled away, but not too far. They were still nestled together on her sofa.

She was still looking at him with wonder in her eyes, the same amazed look that had been on her face before she'd flung her arms around him. "He's alive? No one told me! Don, that's – it's wonderful!"

"Yeah," he said, mustering a smile. Freakin' wonderful. His brother had risen from the dead, and he couldn't bring himself to be in the same room with him. "I just found out the day before yesterday, in D.C., myself."

"How?" she said, shaking her head bemusedly.

"It was pretty easy, actually. They lied to everyone, sent him off to a safe house after he was well enough to leave the hospital." His face twisted abruptly; his voice was light, but dripping with sarcasm. "Not that I didn't try to take him out – I almost got him. The blade passed between his heart and his lung. Lucky break."

She stared at him, taken aback by the words and his tone. "Don -,"

He jerked away from her, his face contorted. "It's not like I didn't try, Robin. The fact that he's alive, by some miracle, doesn't change the fact that I tried my damnedest to kill him. And it's still not safe for me to be around him."

She frowned at that and gave a shake of her head that made her sleek ponytail flip. "Says who?"

"My therapist – deprogrammer – Wilkes, for one, if I bothered to listen to him." His shoulders slumped suddenly and he sighed, and ran a hand over his face. "He told me that I needed to take it slow until the deprogramming was done. I didn't listen to him – I had to see him. I spent all day with him yesterday, starting out in D.C. in the morning and traveling with him, and then I stayed at his house last night." He raised his head and looked at her, and the expression in his eyes nearly broke her heart. "It was both the best thing and the worst thing in the world, being with him. I was crawling inside, but I could control it, I thought. And I was so happy he was there, you know?"

"But -," she prompting him as he fell silent.

He glanced sideways at her, abruptly wishing he hadn't said so much. What would she think if he told her? "I went to bed, and had horrible dreams," he finished lamely. She cocked her had at him, and he knew he wasn't fooling her. His voice dropped even further. "I dreamed I killed him."

"That's it? You had a bad dream?"

He stared at her. "It was so real, I wasn't sure I hadn't done it. I woke up standing in the hallway, still not knowing."

"But you didn't," she said, matter-of-factly. "Everything considered, I don't think it's surprising at all."

He shook his head. "You don't understand. It's not safe for him to be around me, and I'm not sure if it ever will be." His voice shook a little. "I don't know if we can go back."

"Is that what Wilkes says?"

Don groaned softly and ran a hand through his hair. "No. He keeps saying there's a good chance that the deprogramming will be successful. He doesn't know, though – how can he know? If he knows so much, he wouldn't have let me upstairs last night."

"Why did you wake up?"

"Wilkes woke me. He spoke to me in the hallway."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "It sounds like this Wilkes guy is pretty well on top of things."

Don sighed. "He _did_ warn me – he told me I was spending too much time with him yesterday, and he tried to talk me out of sleeping upstairs."

Her lip curled wryly. "And you listened meekly, like you always do."

She almost got a smile at that, a slight rueful twist of the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I guess I should give him a little more credit."

"So what did he say you should be doing now?"

Don's eyes strayed to the floor. "Seeing Charlie for a little while each day, and going to my deprogramming sessions."

"And is that what you did today?"

He shot to his feet, and paced away from her. "No. Hell, no. I left. I was freaked out – I wasn't sure what I would do when I saw him."

Her voice was calm, but he could see still see that stubborn matter-of-fact set to her jaw. "Wilkes knows what he's doing. I think you should listen to him. He's going to try to control the situation – he won't let you alone with Charlie, right? So you shouldn't worry about it. Listen to yourself for a moment – you're agonizing over this, and why?"

He looked at her as if she was a bit slow. "Because I'm worried I'm going to do something to hurt him."

"Exactly," she said, smiling triumphantly. "You're _worried_ about _him_. Doesn't that tell you something? If you really wanted to hurt him, you wouldn't be so worried. So relax a little. Do what Wilkes says, and it will all turn out all right." She stood and took his hand, pulling him gently toward the bedroom. "It _will_ be all right - come on – I'll prove it to you."

* * *

End Chapter 44


	45. Chapter 45

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 45**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: This is another longer one..._

* * *

Moses Jackson stepped along the banks of the Mississippi, his bent arthritic form protesting every move. He shuffled through the clumps of moonlit brush, ducking under tree limbs, here and there approaching the river's edge and reaching down to test a trotline. They were big lines, thick weighted cords flung far out into the murky water, with baited hooks dangling along their length. Big lines for big fish – he'd hauled in channel catfish weighing close to 200 pounds. One last check of the lines, and then he'd go home for the night, and come back to check them in the morning.

He stepped over a log and bent one creaking knee to pull on his biggest rig. It contained just two hooks, both baited with skinned rabbits. He hadn't caught anything on that line in over a year – it was rigged for only the biggest cats – the rare monster that lurked the depths – but he put it out every time, just the same. A man just never knew when those big ones would come along. He pulled, and grunted in surprise. The line felt surprisingly heavy.

He brought his left leg over the log and positioned himself, testing the line again with a slow steady pull. "Damn," he muttered. There was definitely something heavy on it, but there was no pull back, no resistance. If a big cat had hooked itself, it would fight him. He pulled harder, with all his strength, and he felt something give. The resistance had decreased a bit, but the line still felt extremely heavy, and he hauled it in, hand over hand. It might be a huge snapping turtle after the bait, he thought to himself. Beads of sweat popped on his dark wrinkled brow, and he grunted with the effort, but he knew for sure it wasn't a big fish; he'd never be able to pull one that size in by himself. "Damn turtles," he mumbled. "Stealin' my damn bait. Prob'ly a big, nasty muthahfuckah."

By the time his load neared shore, he was beginning to wonder if he had a turtle. Granted, some of the snappers were huge, but this seemed so damned heavy… He brightened a little. A good-sized turtle brought ten dollars per pound in the market. Panting, he heard his load break water; saw a bit of it, a dim black spot darker than the black water, and at the same time, a stench hit his nose. He wrinkled it in disgust – he had snagged something dead, and big – maybe a dead deer. "Shit," he gasped, disappointed, and straining his wiry muscles, pushed backwards with his legs, hauling the load toward the water's edge. He was gagging now; the smell was horrific, but he couldn't afford another line this size – he needed to cut it free.

He fumbled for a rag in his pocket and put it over his nose and mouth; it was dirty and smelled like stink bait, but it was better than the reek that was coming from the object on the shoreline. He fumbled for a pocketknife with his other hand, stepping forward, and as he reached the carcass, he stopped, peering at it in the dappled moonlight. It was bloated, rotting, clumps of it torn away, but it was unmistakably human. Moses stumbled backwards. "Sweet Jesus!"

He stared at it for a moment, then bent down and wrapped the line around a stump, securing it so the body wouldn't float away, and then turned and stumbled for his pickup. The nearest phone was at least two miles away.

* * *

J. Scott Marsh sat in his darkened study, considering his options. Upon learning that Charles Eppes was alive, two days prior, his first inclination had been to hop a plane to Los Angeles. Reason, however, prevailed, and he forced himself to wait, to sit and think. In the meantime, he'd hired a man based in L.A. – a Latino with affiliations to gangs, and a history of service as a sniper in Afghanistan, who had a reputation as a hit man. There was a chance that Marsh wouldn't need to travel at all; he could direct a hit on Dr. Eppes while he sat in Washington, D.C. with an unimpeachable alibi.

He'd just gotten off the phone with his man, however, and the news wasn't good. There was tight surveillance around Dr. Eppes' Craftsman home, and no good way to get to him. Marsh could wait, and in the meantime, he had told the assassin to make an attempt if he saw an opportunity, but he was growing more uncomfortable as time progressed. With the death of the Montreaux cousins, the trial had been cancelled and he no longer had a deadline, but the longer Eppes was alive, the greater the chance that they would uncover something. He assumed that they'd had Charlie Eppes going through photos, although he knew it was unlikely that those photos would contain shots of high-ranking government agents like himself. If they stumbled on something that pointed them that way somehow, however, and had him start looking through agency photos… He couldn't afford to take the chance.

The other thing that was driving his need for expediency was Don Eppes himself. Even if no one knew that Eppes still had the wiring in his head, Marsh imagined they would start to work on deprogramming him in psychotherapy sessions. His man had told him that Don was staying in his own apartment, so that was good; it meant that they were probably limiting his exposure to Charlie – perhaps they even still considered Don a danger to the professor. If it came down to using Don Eppes again to get to his brother, Marsh wanted to strike while he was still under the effects of the brainwashing. The controls Marsh possessed, still waiting in the vest in the L.A. health club locker room, would probably be enough to get Don to do the job, but the less time they had for deprogramming him, the better.

In light of that, Marsh had made arrangements that morning. He'd called his boss and told him that his sister was starting chemotherapy in a few days and that he was taking some leave, and followed that by booking a flight to Vegas. Then he'd called and booked another from Vegas to L.A. under an alias – but not one of his many CIA covers; he needed to make sure that this one couldn't be traced. His assassin would have a few more days to get to Charlie Eppes, before Marsh stepped in and took care of things himself.

* * *

The following evening, Don stepped through the front door of the Craftsman, fighting back a feeling of trepidation. He'd followed Robin's advice and listened to Wilkes, spending a long morning in a deprogramming session, and the afternoon at the office.

Wilkes had given him the option of visiting Charlie, but Masters had taken away his ability to choose; he told Don that they needed to meet with Charlie and with CIA Director Conaghan that evening. They were going to tie in by secure cell phone with the director from the Craftsman. Now Don was here, where he both wished and feared to be.

He tensed as he saw Charlie seated on the sofa, holding his breath as his younger brother turned his head and their eyes met. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but as his heart rate settled, he let out a breath. He'd felt an odd little surge of mixed irritation and something else – something more positive; pleasure perhaps, nothing more. He apparently wasn't going to fall apart and go into attack mode.

Still, he kept some space between them, closing to reasonable speaking distance across from Charlie before sinking into a chair, while the others filed into the room. Charlie hadn't taken his gaze off him since he entered; his dark eyes somber, watchful. Was Charlie still as afraid of him as Don was of himself?

"How are you feeling?" Don asked, and he realized with surprise that he was truly interested in the answer.

"Good," Charlie answered quietly. "Much better actually." He smiled ruefully. "I started taking my antibiotic again – should have known better." He cocked his head a little. "Missed you yesterday." The statement was delivered in a flat tone – Charlie either didn't mean what he'd just said, or he was being careful not to let emotion creep into the phrase; Don wasn't sure which.

Don rubbed the back of his head, and looked away. "Yeah, well, I got tied up at Robin's last night, and it was late when I got out."

Charlie studied his face for a moment, then nodded and looked away. As he did so, Don caught the flash of something – disappointment, maybe? – in his eyes. Suddenly it occurred to him – against all odds, Charlie wanted him here. He was still cautious, still afraid, but he wanted Don around. The thought elicited a wave of emotion so gut-wrenching, for a moment, Don neither heard nor saw anything that was going on around him. Hope and guilt collided inside him like rogue waves, making his head spin, until he took a deep breath, and managed to collect himself. One thing was certain - he'd found it out the first day he'd spent with Charlie since the attack - Don's emotions went into overdrive every time he was around him. Some of them were positive, some were negative, but they all were powerful. He needed to talk to Wilkes about that, he decided. He needed to figure out how to continue to feel, but stay in control. Charlie was apparently willing to trust him enough to try to mend the rift between them. Whatever he did, he couldn't violate that trust.

They moved to the dining room to conduct the meeting, and Don found himself in a seat away from Charlie – not next to him, not facing him. Rogan had sat between them, and Don wondered if Wilkes had told Rogan to do that to separate them– or perhaps, he was simply being paranoid. Alan joined the group and took a seat in the corner of the room; his father wasn't about to be left out any proceedings that involved his sons, apparently. As he sat, his eyes connected with Don's; they were warm, sympathetic, worried. Charlie wanted him here, and his father was worried about him. Don felt a stab of guilt-tinged thankfulness at the thought.

Along with Rogan and Charlie, Masters, Wilkes, and Ian Edgerton were seated at the table, and Masters put his cell phone on speaker. There was a ring on the other end, and then the CIA Director's voice came on. "Conaghan."

"Good evening, sir," said Masters. "I've got everyone you asked for, here."

"Director Maxwell is on the line with me," Conaghan replied. "First of all, I should ask whether there is anything new to report on your end."

Seven pairs of eyes lifted and met, and then Masters said, "Nothing here, sir. It's been pretty quiet."

"Very well," said Conaghan. "We have a development on this end that you need to know about. We got a call from New Orleans yesterday. Apparently, a fisherman in a rural parish pulled a body out of the Mississippi River last night. It was badly decomposed, but there was a driver's license with the body that was laminated. It had degraded somewhat, but the plastic protected it enough that they were able to make out the print. The name on the ID is Joseph Bishop."

"Shit," swore Masters softly, and the group at the table stared at each other.

Conaghan continued, "We are conducting DNA testing to make sure that it is actually Bishop, and the coroner is investigating the cause of death. We think the body was weighted, however, which would point to homicide."

Rogan frowned. "You _think_ it was weighted?"

"The feet were missing," said Conaghan. "As I said, the body was badly decomposed; we think that when the fisherman pulled him up the feet were held by whatever bound them to the weight, and they separated from the body."

Don snuck a sidelong peek at Charlie, who had turned slightly green at that statement, his complexion matching their father's, across the room. Ian was frowning, and he glanced at Don, as Masters said, "If it is Bishop and he was murdered, then we've been after the wrong man all along. The question is; who is behind the murders? The Iranians? Our mystery man? Someone else?"

"More to the point," said Rogan, "are they, or is he, finished?"

Dave Maxwell's voice floated out from the phone. "Those questions are related. It's tough to know without understanding the extent of Bishop's involvement. Either Bishop was innocent and they simply set him up to take the fall; or he was involved, and they thought they needed to eliminate him to cover their tracks. My personal opinion is that the answer to whether or not they are finished is tied to the mystery man. We discussed this before. If that man is of no consequence, he's probably dead, himself. If, on the other hand, he is powerful enough to be calling the shots, we still have a problem. We can't take surveillance off the Eppes family until we know for sure."

"We're still surmising Bishop was involved," said Conaghan. "Why else would he book a flight to Mobile the night he disappeared? And if someone decided that he was expendable, then that someone had some power. Charlie, I'm guessing the unknown man you saw was someone high level – perhaps the middleman between the Iranians and Montreaux. I know we've had you looking through photos, but we need to step up those efforts and expand the search."

"I can do that," Charlie said, slowly. "I have some issues for which I need your guidance, however. First of all, the time we set aside for the cover assignment will be up in a little over two weeks, and Cal Sci will be expecting me back. I'm surprised Mildred Finch hasn't called me yet."

"That's because we already talked to her, and to the Dean," said Masters. "As far as your colleagues on campus go, they still think you're on the cover assignment at Quantico. However, we told the Dean and Professor Finch that you and Don were actually on an undercover assignment, although we didn't tell them what it was, and requested their discretion and patience. I agree, though, we probably need to touch base with them again and let them know you may be away longer."

Charlie set his jaw stubbornly. "I can agree to another couple of weeks, but you can't expect me to stay holed up in this house indefinitely."

Conaghan's voice came from the phone. "Dr. Eppes, you don't appear to understand the gravity of this situation. If we can't get to this man, we may need to put you into witness protection. You may not be going back to Cal Sci."

There was dead silence. Don felt his heart twist as he looked at Charlie's face; his brother sat there dumbfounded, his lips parted as though he were going to reply but couldn't find the words. Don could imagine what he was thinking – that he'd have to leave home and family, probably Amita… his career, his life as he knew it would be gone. Don had a vision of him, tucked away in some secret government think tank for the rest of his days, and the thought made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. Dave Maxwell's voice broke the quiet. "We have another issue that will resurface in two days. Your friends come back from Europe then, if I'm not mistaken."

Charlie managed to find his voice enough to answer. "Yes."

"The less people know about these doings the better," Maxwell went on. "Over two weeks ago, while you were at the L.A safe house, before -," he paused here, and studiously avoided looking at Don, "the attack, you told them that you and Don had been in a car accident. Actually, as I recall, Agent Reeves cornered you into that admission, and then she called them and told them."

"Yes," said Charlie again. His voice was husky, quiet, and Don knew he was trying hold back his emotions; keep the disappointment and anxiety out of his voice. "They still believe we took a break from Quantico to heal up from the accident, and when I went out to testify, I told them we went back to run a demo class."

"Good," said Maxwell. "Let them think that. A car accident will also explain any visible scars. We'll need to figure out what to tell them as to why you didn't go back to campus yet. It is nearly two months into the term; maybe we can get an agreement from Dr. Finch to state that it's too late for you to return this session, and that she asked that you be back for the fall term, perhaps even the summer, if we can resolve this by then. Maybe you can do some consulting from home – both to keep yourself busy and as a cover story."

Charlie sat silently, with his shoulders slumped, but he sent a look of dismay toward Alan, who was sitting, frowning in the corner. Don felt a sudden, surprising urge to throw an arm around his shoulders in a gesture of comfort, and if he'd been sitting next to him, he might well have. Instead, he spoke gruffly toward the phone. "We need to pull out all the stops on this investigation," he said curtly. "Charlie didn't sign up for this thinking he'd end up in witness protection. That's not an option – we need to resolve this."

Conaghan spoke, forced patience in his voice. "And we're trying our best to do that. This isn't confined to your brother, agent. You are also at risk. We have every intention of getting to the bottom of this. It may take some time, that's all. In the meantime, we need to be patient, and discreet. Agent Edgerton, I expect you to factor this new information into your investigation. For now, operate under the assumption that the man found in the river is Bishop, and when we get confirmed DNA results, we'll get them back to you."

"I could use some assistance on this," Ian replied. "I'd like to bring in Agents Granger and Sinclair. They're both already cleared for the information in this case."

"Very well," Maxwell agreed. "I'll call A.D. Wright and let him know he has my permission. They will report to you."

The meeting broke up shortly afterward, and Don found himself hesitating, hanging back, as Wilkes and Masters headed toward the door. The Craftsman seemed warm and inviting; he hadn't wanted to come, but now that he was there, he wanted to stay. It helped to know that he could face Charlie without going off the deep end; in fact, he felt a sense of warmth and concern when he looked at his younger brother's face. There was, however, a niggling sensation of irritation still; the thought in the back of his mind that they wouldn't be in this situation if Charlie hadn't pushed to take the undercover assignment. He shied away from the thought like a skittish horse; he questioned every negative thought, every negative emotion now.

"You ready to go?" Wilkes asked quietly, and Don took a breath and nodded. The visit had gone relatively well; it was better to get out while the going was good. He turned back to say good-bye, only to be faced with Charlie, who had stepped up next to him.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said quietly, his face filled with regret and anxiety. "I never thought that the assignment would end up like this – that it would cause any long-term problems."

Charlie's proximity and the volatile subject prompted an immediate reaction. Emotion burst, flooding Don's gut – hope, love, irritation, anger, anxiety – so strong, he had to fight to control himself, and his response as a result was terse, gruff. "It is what it is, Charlie. We have to fix it, that's all. Don't worry, we'll get him."

Then he walked out, rigidly, sweat trickling down his neck, leaving Charlie staring after him.

* * *

Jorge Cazares shifted the rifle in his hands and peered through the scope. He was only two houses away from the Craftsman; not directly across the street, but in a house on the street over, that backed up to a home across the street from the Craftsman. The house was for sale, abandoned, and had been for a while. In the economic downturn, no one was buying homes up quickly, not even in this desirable neighborhood. It wasn't optimal for a stakeout; it was further away than he liked, although he could see most of the front of the Craftsman between the two houses behind his hideout if he positioned himself in the back bedroom. It was as good as he could do, however. He didn't dare get any closer; the professor's house was surrounded by agents, who lurked in the shrubbery, and crouched behind the large planters at the front of the house.

Jorge's job was made more complicated by the fact that to his knowledge, the professor never left the house. He had a picture and a description of Charlie Eppes; he knew the professor would be smaller and slighter than most of the other men who came and went from the home, although until that night, he had yet to get a clear look at him. Usually the drapes were drawn on the living room picture window, but the material was sheer, and if he looked through the scope, he could make out figures passing back and forth behind them; dim, cloudy through the filmy fabric. Earlier that evening, before the group of men had arrived, the drapes had been open – a rare occurrence - and he'd finally gotten a clear look at the subject. The professor had passed in front of the window in plain view, and Jorge had taken in his size, his posture, his manner of moving, the silhouette of the curly head. It still had been light out then; he couldn't risk a shot or he would have been too easily apprehended. He needed to wait for darkness. He could afford to be patient, however; he now knew enough of how the professor looked and moved that he would be able to distinguish his figure from others, even if the sheers were drawn. Darkness would actually improve his view; at night, the soft light emanating from the house illuminated the figures inside. Yes, he could be patient, but not too patient; he had until the end of this week, no more, to get the job done.

* * *

End Chapter 45

_A/N: Next up, Charlie begins to show evidence of the psychological effects of his ordeal… and for those who are wondering, there is much whumping ahead for both boys, and we are drawing inexorably closer to whump time. _


	46. Chapter 46

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 46**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Your reviews are very much appreciated. _

* * *

Two days after the meeting, Charlie paced the living room. Nerves and boredom had him on his feet, roaming from one room to the next; living room, dining room, kitchen, at least until his father had chased him out of the kitchen. Now he was wearing a path from the dining room table to the sofa. The boredom needed no explanation; several days of being cooped up in the Craftsman were wearing on his patience. He was feeling better, too; he had a little more energy, which didn't help matters when it came to fidgeting.

The nerves were generated by more than one thing. Of course, there was the underlying tension that came with being under surveillance, the constant reminder that he and Don were targets. Added to that was the inescapable, terrifying memory of the attack. He wouldn't admit as much consciously, but he was burying the event, trying to forget it instead of dealing with it. He _couldn't_ deal with it – dredge up the emotion, the fear, the pain – and still be able to support Don's recovery. He needed to be normal, calm, encouraging when Don was here – and Don had been. To Charlie's relief, his brother had spent several hours at his house yesterday. There was still underlying tension there; they circled each other like dancers; the conversation polite but wary, but Don actually seemed more relaxed as the time went on, rather than less. Wilkes had been so encouraged, he suggested that Don to return to the Craftsman the next evening, to spend the night there.

That was generating part of Charlie's nervous reaction. Don had reacted strangely to Wilkes' suggestion - Charlie wasn't sure why – but his brother had finally, reluctantly agreed, and Charlie felt both a surge of anxiety and triumph. His relationship with Don seemed to be limping back towards normalcy, bit by bit, which was exciting in itself. Along with the excitement came a sense of fear, which Charlie obstinately ignored. He wasn't still afraid of his brother. He absolutely was _not_. So what if Don seemed to be tense, quiet, and distant? He'd been handling himself well; they'd talked about a case at the office like old times for over an hour yesterday. No, everything was fine; there was nothing to fear. Charlie simply was anxious for the visit to go well, for Don's sake. That, at least, was what he told himself.

The other part of his nervous reaction was due to another impending visit – Amita and Larry were due back that day, and were coming to the Craftsman straight from the airport; in fact, they were due there at any moment. Again, the prospect induced both excitement and anxiety; he couldn't wait to see them, couldn't wait to hold Amita in his arms. He knew, however, that from the moment they walked in the door, he would need to lie to them, and the prospect added to his jitters, not to mention his sense of guilt. Undercover assignment or not, he still wasn't accomplished at deceit, especially when it came to two people who knew him so well. In addition, Don would be there with them that evening, making it imperative that Charlie handle himself, and the conversation, well.

The doorbell rang, and he nearly jumped from his tracks. He could hear Alan pushing through the kitchen door behind him as he made for the front door, and swung it open. Two smiling, apprehensive faces greeted him; two weary but searching sets of eyes found his. "Charles!" Larry beamed at him. "You seem to be none the worse for wear as a result of your accident."

Charlie was acutely aware of Amita's gaze on him, examining him anxiously in the split second before she rushed forward to embrace him. She clung to him tightly, and he hugged her hard, ignoring the painful twinge in his still-healing chest. "Charlie," she whispered in his ear, her voice husky with emotion. "I missed you so much." She released him and stepped back to look at him again. "We were so worried about you."

Charlie smiled at them, and cocked his head self-consciously. "I'm fine," he assured them. "Come on in, you must be exhausted."

"It _was_ a long flight," conceded Larry, as he stepped forward to greet Alan. As they clasped hands, Amita stepped closer to Charlie.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she murmured, concern in her eyes. "You're so thin."

He lifted the corner of his mouth. "I prefer to think of it as buff," he teased, and leaned over to kiss her. God, she tasted, felt, _smelled_ good, and that was saying something, after thirteen hours on a plane. It was a heady reminder of life before the attack, and the nearness of her felt especially poignant after all the fear and the turmoil. "I missed you so much," he whispered, emotion thick in his throat, and kissed her again.

She flushed with pleasure, her eyes shining. "I'm going to have to go away more often," she threatened, and kissed him back, lightly, her lips lingering just a little, close to his.

"Perhaps you two need a room." Alan's dry voice made them both separate, blushing at little, but he was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The easy, comfortable ambiance of the moment made Charlie's heart nearly burst with happiness – a sensation almost forgotten – and Don would be there soon, to share it. _Normal_, he lied to himself. Life was getting back to normal again.

* * *

Later that night, he lay back in bed, one arm around Amita's shoulders as she nestled against him, skin to skin. He twisted his head slightly, and brushed her forehead with his lips, both of them breathing deeply, coming down from the rush of pleasure and passion. He stiffened slightly as her fingertip traced lazy circles over his chest; it didn't hurt, but he instinctively shied away from her tactile roaming. He couldn't afford for her to feel the scars; she couldn't see them in the darkness and he didn't want her to, at least until they had faded. If she detected them, he planned to use the accident as an excuse, but he wasn't sure if that story would be believable or not. In the light of day, the scars might tell a different tale.

The evening had gone fairly well, he reflected. Don and Wilkes had shown up, and Don introduced Wilkes as an agent visiting from Atlanta, and politely asked Alan if he could stay for dinner, giving Wilkes a cover for the professors' benefit. Amita and Larry had seemed to think nothing of it, and the group had spent what Charlie had thought was a comfortable evening. Of course, not as comfortable as this.

"That was sooo nice," Amita murmured with a contented sigh. "God, I missed you."

"Come on," Charlie teased her. "You were working on the most exciting project on the planet, hobnobbing with the brightest minds in physics. You didn't think about home one bit."

"It _was_ exciting, and intense," she admitted. "I'm sorry I didn't call more – between the time difference and everything we had going, it was hard sometimes. It didn't mean I didn't miss you."

"I know," he said softly, brushing another kiss across her forehead. The truth was, he'd had a hard enough time juggling her calls, especially while he'd been undercover, and unconscious… "I missed you too."

She sighed again; then yawned. "So what's up with Don?"

He froze in the darkness. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," she said sleepily. "He just seemed quiet, tense; he was pacing a lot. That case with Atlanta - it must be a big one."

Charlie forced himself to relax. "Yeah – I guess it must be."

"You're not working on it?"

"He hasn't asked me to look at anything," Charlie demurred. "I'll have to ask him about it." She was stirring, getting into a comfortable position, and he gently pulled his arm out from under her shoulders.

"Mmmm," she murmured, already drifting off to sleep, leaving him lying there, staring up into the darkness. Was it still that obvious? He'd thought that things had seemed pretty routine that night – although, what was normal anymore? The evening_ had_ been normal, compared to how bad it had been, compared to an attempted strangling, a stabbing. Was that horrible frame of reference coloring his perception so much? Or was he only seeing what he wanted to see, and ignoring any evidence that Don still wasn't quite right? With those disturbing thoughts on his mind, he finally followed her into sleep.

* * *

Don stood in the doorway of the solarium, and watched dubiously as Wilkes set up his monitoring equipment. "Maybe I should sleep downstairs," he said.

Wilkes shook his head. "You've made a lot of progress over the last few days. Plus, I have the equipment hooked up and a sensor in your bedroom. If you get up, I'll know it."

Don scowled. "How do you know I'm making progress? You said yourself that with the devices they put in to restrict the current, you couldn't compare my progress to the original readings you took back at Cypress." Subconsciously, he ran his fingertips over the one of the lumps near his collarbone, where the batteries resided that could feed power to his brain, where they'd attached the devices that would reduce that power, as a safeguard, in case someone unknown turned it on.

"True," conceded Wilkes. He looked at Don, somberly. "But we're stuck with the situation, until you get those dampening devices removed and we can get true readings. To be truthful, I'm going more on how you're behaving than any readings I'm getting, right now."

Don grimaced. "And I behaved fine a few days ago, until I got up for a midnight stroll."

"Look," Wilkes sighed. "If you're trying to get me to tell you I'd leave you alone with him right now, I have to admit, I wouldn't allow it. But we need to try to put you in some controlled situations if you're going to make progress. Tomorrow after we leave here, we'll run another deprogramming session, and then we'll take a break. You can come over here for dinner; then go back to your apartment tomorrow night, or over to Robin Brooks' place."

Don's lips tightened and he looked away, then looked back at Wilkes and sighed. "Yeah. Just keep an eye on that monitor, okay?"

* * *

Dawn light seeped around the sides of the shades, and teased Charlie's eyelids open. He immediately tensed; he couldn't simply wake these days. He always jerked alert, waking to a feeling of impending dread until he got his bearings and managed to push the demons back down into his subconscious. This morning, he had help; Amita's warm body next to his was like a salve for his damaged psyche. She was still sleeping soundly, which was a good thing, Charlie realized; the scars on his chest were clearly visible in the morning light. Gently, carefully, he slid out of bed and grabbed jeans and a clean T-shirt and underwear. He'd slip into the shower and dress before she was up.

Clutching the clothes to his gut, wearing nothing but boxers, he eased quickly out through the doorway, shutting the door quietly behind him. The house was quiet, and so he was in for a shock as he turned to confront the unexpected figure in the hallway. Don's dark eyes stared back at him and Charlie's heart turned a somersault, and his brain with it, as a flashback hit him, full force. For a moment, he was back in the conference room, and Don was approaching him, knife raised, glinting, menacing. Charlie gasped and staggered backwards into the wall at the end of the hallway next to the door of his room, and froze, leaning against the wall for support.

It took another split second for him to process that Don wasn't moving; he was simply standing there, staring, with a stricken look on his face. Charlie followed his eyes; they were on his chest, riveted on the scars, and Charlie self-consciously pulled the rumpled wad of clothing upward to cover them, still trying to fight back a vision that seemed more real than the hallway around him. Finally gaining enough of his wits to move, he fumbled for the door of his room and escaped inside, closing it behind him. His heart was still hammering, and suddenly weak-kneed, he stumbled for the bed and sank onto it, trying to catch his breath, as he lowered the clothes to his lap with trembling hands. He was so shaken, he didn't realize that Amita had sat up and was staring at him oddly, anxiously. He could hear her voice as if from far away, then closer, louder. "Charlie? What's wrong?"

The real world came back to him and he bounced to his feet defensively, dropping his clothes in the process, and confusedly turned and bent to pick them up, trying to keep her from seeing his chest. "N-nothing," he managed. "Someone was in the bathroom, that's all. I have to wait."

He set the clothes in a pile and backed onto the bed, pulling the sheet up over him as he lay down, making sure he was covered before he faced her. Amita was staring at him suspiciously, and as he turned toward her, he released the edge of the sheet, which she promptly grabbed and pulled back down, frowning as she saw his chest. He pulled it up again, but not before she'd gotten a good look. "Come on," he said, smiling weakly, "I'm cold."

She looked at him, and he could see concern and a touch of irritation in her face; she knew he was trying to cover something up. "What is that, Charlie?"

"What?" he asked innocently. God, he was shaking. She had to see it. Hopefully she would think that he really was cold.

"Those scars on your chest. They didn't look like they're from an accident. What happened?"

"Glass shards," he mumbled, dropping his eyes.

She scowled at him, prettily. "Charlie, don't lie to me. I did a research project in high school on the properties of windshield glass. All windshields are designed to shatter in tiny pieces and are laminated so the pieces stick to the laminate, so the shards can't stab someone. You can't tell me that those wounds were made by windshield glass."

Charlie scowled back, pretending to be affronted, trying mightily to corral his reeling senses enough to carry on the conversation. "Well, it was. The rental car must have had an inferior brand replacement windshield. It really looks worse than it was."

He turned over on his side away from her, catching her skeptical expression as he did so, and felt her eyes boring into his back. It had been all he could do to collect himself enough to speak to her, to fight back the visions that had arisen, all too real, in his head.

* * *

Don stood still for a moment; then dazedly turned for his room. He'd been on the way back to his bedroom from a shower and had just stepped out the bathroom door when he'd confronted Charlie, and the terror on his younger brother's face had hit him like a blow. It was followed by an eyeful of the ugly scars on Charlie's chest, and he felt an odd sinking sensation in his heart as Charlie fumbled for the door and disappeared into his room. '_I did that_,' was all Don could think, as he trudged, zombie-like for his room. '_I did that._'

He was so immersed in sorrow and guilt; he didn't even see Wilkes standing at the other end of the hallway, near the stairs, watching him. He made it to his bed and sank onto it, staring listlessly, unseeing, at the floor. '_I did that._' It wasn't clear to him whether he meant that he caused the look of terror on Charlie's face, or the livid scars, or both, but it didn't matter. He would live with the memory of that look, those scars, for the rest of his life.

* * *

End Chapter 46

_A/N: Charlie's PTSD is starting to manifest itself - and will become very important later..._


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: The reviewers have spoken...(many thanks)_

……………………………………………………………

J. Scott Marsh stepped out of the doors of the LAX airport terminal and took a deep breath of smog-tinged sunlit air. He glanced around quickly without seeming to, and strode for his rental car. No sooner was he inside than he pulled out his cell phone.

"Express Packaging," said a pleasant female voice on the other end. "How can I help you?"

"You have a prepaid package there addressed to Mr. Don Eppes," said Marsh. "I'd like you to deliver it to his apartment. Expedited delivery, today."

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Do you have your confirmation number?"

He gave it to her, got her promise of a quick delivery, and hung up, then immediately dialed again. Jorge Cazares' voice came over the line, lazy, insolent. Marsh could hear faint music in the background. "Yeah."

"No wonder you haven't gotten him yet," said Marsh coldly. "It's probably tough to get a shot from your seat in the bar."

Cazares' voice stiffened defensively, and dropped a decibel or two. "I tole you before, man, I can't do it in the daytime. I'd never get out of there. I'm goin' back in tonight."

"All right," said Marsh. "You get one last chance; after that you're off the job. If you don't get him, you'll get one tenth of your money for your efforts, but if you succeed, you'll get all of it. Either way, you get out after tonight and disappear – do not come back. I'll get the money to you."

"Don' worry, man." Arrogance had crept back into Cazares' voice. "I'll get him. Tonight's the night."

"Did you get the guns?"

"Yeah. I left them where you tole me. You can pick them up there."

"Glad to hear it," said Marsh dryly, and hung up. He sat for a moment, thinking. It wouldn't hurt to give Cazares one more chance at Dr. Eppes. He might get lucky; then his main problem would be taken care of, and he'd only need to deal with Don Eppes. And if Cazares wasn't successful, well, Marsh had a backup plan. With the wiring still in the agent's head, and Marsh in possession of the controls, Don Eppes was his own personal assassin. A nice little murder-suicide would address the problem effectively.

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Alan heard the front door shut, and then moments later the soft swoosh of the kitchen door as it opened behind him. Charlie drifted in, and Alan shot a quick glance at him over his shoulder as he sliced a cucumber.

Charlie's face was troubled, and his voice matched it as he said, "I hate lying to them."

He paused for a moment, then sat heavily in a chair and rubbed his face with a hand. Alan laid down the knife and swung around to face him, snatching a paper towel to wipe his hands. For a moment or two, he simply studied his son. Charlie had been an enigma since he returned; he refused to talk about what had happened, and Alan hadn't pushed. The truth was, he didn't want to know the details; he was too afraid it would indelibly color his perception of Don, and he didn't want that, especially if Don was able to be fully reprogrammed. He knew Charlie was trying desperately to get things back to normal, and he had to admit, he had been, too. It occurred to him, though, as he stood there looking at Charlie, slouching despondently in the kitchen chair, that perhaps that wasn't fair to Charlie. He probably should be getting therapy himself, thought Alan to himself.

"Maybe you should talk to Jonathan Wilkes," he suggested. "The man's a licensed psychiatrist, and he seems to be helping Don. You need to deal with what happened, too."

That drew Charlie out of his downcast reverie; he scowled, and his eyes flashed, hard and obstinate. "I don't need to talk to anyone – and especially not him."

"You don't have a lot of choices," said Alan gently. "I can't imagine there are too many therapists out there cleared for this kind of thing."

Charlie's eyes snapped. "I know that. If there were, I'd make sure Don was going to someone else, other than the man who did this to him to begin with." He looked away, the anger fading a just a bit. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't need to talk to anyone."

"No of course not," said Alan wryly. "You drift around the house looking like you're seeing ghosts, you jump at the drop of a pin, your hands shake, and you scream in your sleep. All perfectly normal."

Charlie's eyes widened anxiously. "I scream at night? Did I do it last night?"

Alan raised an eyebrow. "No. I imagine you received some therapy of a different sort."

Charlie flushed a little, and looked downward. "It was good to see her," he admitted softly. "I missed her so much." He looked up, and away, his expression wistful. "I miss life the way it used to be." He broke off, and shook his head. "She suspects something. She saw my scars this morning, and said she didn't think they looked like anything from an accident. I insisted they were."

"Is she coming back, later?"

Charlie nodded. "She just left. She went to her apartment to unpack, shower, and change. I told her and Larry that we're having pizza here at seven. I thought maybe that would give Don and me some time to talk beforehand."

Alan almost hated to tell him. "Don called – he _is_ coming, but Colby, David, and Ian are coming with him. I think they're meeting with Brian Rogan and Bill Masters to discuss options for tracking down the man you saw. They're conferencing with Washington again, and they think the house is the best place to do it. As a matter of fact, Masters asked me to order pizza for everyone, and said that he'd pick up the tab. Don told me they'd be done before seven."

Charlie sighed, and his shoulders slumped dejectedly. "Great. What am I supposed to tell Amita and Larry? They're going to wonder who Rogan and Masters are, and why all of them are here."

"Don said he'd tell them they were agents out of Atlanta, too, the same way he introduced Wilkes. They'll say they're working on a case that has a connection between Atlanta and L.A."

Charlie shook his head. "This is never going to work. Even if we keep up this charade, Amita and Larry are eventually going to wonder why I never leave the house."

"Maybe they'll catch him soon," Alan said, trying to sound comforting. "Then we can all move on." His words were light, but in fact, he was terrified by the thought that someone might still be out there, after his sons. He shook a finger at Charlie in mock sternness. "That wouldn't change the fact that you could stand to talk to someone about all this." His expression softened. "You've been through a lot, son. You can't deny it happened, and you can't hide from it. It will catch up with you, eventually."

Charlie just shrugged impatiently, rose, and pushed out through the kitchen door.

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Masters hung up his cell phone and looked at the group. "So the DNA says it definitely was Bishop," he said.

Charlie said nothing; he was lying back in his chair, scowling, his arms crossed across his chest. Don sat across the dining room table from him, between Colby and Ian, his face a mask. Charlie glanced at him, then quickly away. He was afraid to look at him, after that morning – what if he had a flashback again? His eyes roamed the table restlessly, and finally settled on Colby's watch. He felt as though he was on pins and needles; he couldn't sit still. He could sense Don's eyes on him.

"He had to be in on it," said David. "Why else would he take a flight down to Mobile, and end up in the Mississippi outside New Orleans? He wasn't on a sanctioned mission."

"Yeah, but who was he there to see?" Ian's dry laconic voice broke in. "Jack and Pierre Montreaux were in prison in D.C. It had to our unknown perp. Who else would it be?"

"We need to wrap this up," Charlie said impatiently. "My friends will be here any minute." He stood, abruptly.

Masters eyed him with disapproval. "You realize, professor, that this discussion is in your own best interest."

"I don't believe that it is," Charlie retorted. "I think whoever pulled this off, whether he's the man I saw or not, is long gone. He would have tried something by now if he were still interested in me. I've looked at hundreds of pictures, with no luck. I think we're wasting our time." With that, he spun on his heel and strode into the living room.

He was wired. He had been edgy since that morning, since facing Don in the hallway. Since the attack, he'd had flashbacks in his dreams, but until that moment, never while awake, and it had been disturbingly vivid; he'd felt fractured, transported in time. For a few heart-pounding seconds, he had been convinced he was back in the office, trapped, facing Don, about to be stabbed. He'd heard of war veterans breaking with reality when faced with a stimulus like a car backfiring, and becoming convinced they were back in battle. He knew now what that felt like, and he was terrified it would happen again.

The rest of them followed him into the room, and Charlie advanced further to make way - hell, to get away. He couldn't sit; instead, he settled for pacing the length of the living room. He turned, saw Don move to stand by the wall, near him. His heart flipped, but he was able to look at him, he realized. Don had been there for several minutes now, and nothing had happened. Maybe that morning had been an isolated occurrence, he told himself, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach. _Take a deep breath, calm down._ He slowed his pacing, and turned to see Wilkes' eyes on him, shrewd, appraising.

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J. Scott Marsh sank onto the bed in his hotel room, and adjusted the dial in the control vest. He'd picked it up from the health club locker where he'd stashed it, and now was examining it. He was careful not to touch the controls that would send signals to Don Eppes' brain; he left those off for now, and instead familiarized himself with the screen tied into the cameras. One of them was the camera wired into the button of the denim jacket; he'd turned the video feed on, but it was still dark. There was a good reason for that; Don Eppes had not come home to his apartment and opened his package, yet. The mail service had called and confirmed, saying that someone had signed for the package and taken delivery. Marsh didn't bother to ask for a name; he knew that the person was a government agent, assigned to keep watch at Don Eppes' apartment when he wasn't there.

He knew because he could see the agent now, sitting on the sofa in the apartment; the control vest was tied into the cameras that had been installed there. According to a listing in the vest pocket, kindly filled out by Dr. Allman before he delivered the vest to Marsh that night in the bayou, cameras had been installed in several locations: in Dr. Eppes' home, in Don Eppes' apartment and at the FBI offices. The video feed in the control vest had been programmed for all of them. Out of all those cameras, only two were left – the one in the denim jacket, and one that had apparently been missed, still in Don Eppes' apartment. The rest had all been discovered and removed. That had been a disappointment, but in reality, the two that were left were the most vital. Marsh had a good view of the living room of the apartment, and he could see the package, sitting unopened on the coffee table. The agent ignored it; he sat slouched on the sofa, idly flicking through the channels of Don Eppes' television set, oblivious to what sat in front of him.

Marsh checked the control for the audio feed, and then set one of the controls for the brain wiring, but left the power off. He understood from the notes that current applied to the particular wire he had chosen would scramble Don Eppes' decision-making center, making him susceptible to instruction. He made one last check of the settings; then opened the fast food bag next to him, pulling out a sandwich, and settled in to wait, his eyes still on the screen. As soon as Don Eppes came through the door of his apartment, he would switch on the controls and take command. He couldn't afford for Eppes to open the jacket in front of his protection detail. In the meantime, he would eat, and wait for a call from Cazares, which he hoped would deliver the message that Dr. Eppes was dead.

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Jorge Cazares licked his lips, and bent his head to peer through the scope of his rifle. There was a crowd at the Craftsman tonight. A group of men had arrived a little before six, and then at around seven, a young woman and a man had arrived. He'd seen the man the night before; he had obviously arrived at the Craftsman sometime during the day, before Jorge took up his post, but Jorge had seen him leave, at around midnight. Jorge had examined the man carefully; he was older than the professor was, but he also was about the same height, and through the filmy curtains, he might be confused with Dr. Eppes. This evening, when the door opened, however, Jorge was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of his subject. The moment was too brief for a shot, but Jorge got a quick look at Dr. Eppes in the doorway, and saw that he was wearing a white shirt. The visitor had been wearing blue. The two men would be easy enough to distinguish, even through the semi-transparent curtains. He merely needed to watch for the shorter figure with a dark head, in a white shirt, to pass in front of the window.

The fact that there was a crowd there didn't perturb him. In fact, it might play to his advantage; the more people, the more confusion, and the more chance he had to slip out of the house and away in the darkness. His finger tightened on the trigger as the professor's figure passed briefly behind the filmy curtains; he'd seen him pacing moments earlier, and knew now for certain that the figure was his target. He had observed him enough that he knew the way he moved, and the white shirt confirmed his guess. To his disappointment, the professor moved out of sight, but Jorge didn't relax; rather, he kept position, and lowered his head to the scope. Dr. Eppes was on his feet, pacing into the room past the window, then back out. If he held to that pattern of movement, he would pass by the window again within seconds, and Jorge would be ready. He lightly fingered the trigger, and as the figure moved into view again, took a breath, let it out, and squeezed.

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End Chapter 47

_A/N: Cliffie! That was mean, I know._


	48. Chapter 48

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 48**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much to my reviewers._

* * *

Don took up his post again after dinner, leaning against the wall on the edge of the living room, studying Charlie. Something had changed since yesterday; Charlie was nervous, fidgeting; he wouldn't make eye contact with him. At first, Don had thought his brother was just a bit stir-crazy from being housebound, but as the evening went on, he had become convinced that something was wrong – and whatever it was, it had to do with him.

He could tell by the places that Charlie directed his gaze – or more to the point, where he didn't. Charlie had no problem looking at the others in the room, but refused to look at Don for more than a few seconds, his gaze darting away like a manic hummingbird whenever they made eye contact. The odd part was; Don himself had felt more comfortable there that evening than ever. He'd slept relatively soundly the night before, and had only dreamt once of Charlie. It was a dream that now reoccurred every night – one that featured Charlie running, and Don pursuing him. Don still wasn't sure of its significance but it was relatively benign, so he tried not to dwell on it too much. Now, here tonight, he was seeing that dream realized; Charlie was running from him - at least as much as he could in the confines of the house. He refused to make eye contact, and refused to sit still. Don watched as he paced away from him toward the dining room, so intent on observing his brother that he didn't notice Amita's approach until she sidled up next to him.

Her eyes were on Charlie too, as she spoke. "So, what's going on?" she asked softly.

She shot him a questioning glance, and his gaze darted towards her as he tried to get a quick read of her expression. "What do you mean?"

He left the question hanging and directed his eyes back toward his brother, watching as Charlie turned and ambled toward far end of the living room. Wilkes was watching Charlie, too, Don noticed, and so was Ian; their sharp eyes missed nothing. The rest of the group was scattered about the room in chairs, engaged in casual conversations.

"Even Larry noticed," she said. "You and Charlie both seem on edge, and -,"

She was still talking, but the rest of her words trailed off into the background as Don saw Charlie turn. Something – the slight sharp quick crackle of a window being pierced by a round, the faint puff of the bit of sheer drapery, the almost immediate thunk of a bullet burying itself in a wall… It was so fast, and was so overridden by the other sights and sounds in the room that Don almost missed it, and wasn't sure that he'd really seen and heard it. His feet had started to move toward Charlie, however, who had stopped in his tracks with a confused look on his face. He'd heard the sound too, and so had Ian, his head snapping up as he sat erect in his seat, his gaze fixed on the far side of the living room, and on Charlie.

Several things happened in the next few seconds. Amita trailed off in confusion as Don moved suddenly away from her. Ian had risen to his feet, and Don heard him say, "Charlie!" just as the second round came through. This one shattered glass; a piece of the already-cracked picture window gave way. Charlie had seen Don coming toward him; his eyes widened with fear – not of the real threat, which he hadn't realized was there, yet – but of Don himself. Ironically, that fear saved him, because as the second bullet came through, Charlie had already turned away from Don, as if to run. It creased the back collar of his shirt; Don could see the fabric tear right in front of his eyes as the bullet passed between them, as he dove for Charlie, driving him hard to the floor behind the sofa.

The second bullet and the breaking glass caught the attention of the men outside stationed in the shrubs, and immediately pandemonium broke loose. The front door burst open, and men in assault gear poured into the room as the other agents sprang to their feet. Amita shrieked in fear as Larry and Alan stared in shock at the spectacle. Don could feel Charlie struggling underneath him, writhing in panic, but he wasn't about to let him up, back into the gunman's line of sight. Charlie fought with strength imbued by terror, however; and he managed to twist in Don's grip, turning underneath him so that he faced him, and tried to push Don off with his arms. His breath was coming in gasps, and Don's heart contracted at the look in his eyes – wild, deranged with fear.

"Get off him!" Wilkes' voice cut through the din, and Don could feel hands pulling at him, dragging him off Charlie, who now free, scuttled backwards on all fours like a crab, stopping two yards away against the wall, his terror-filled eyes still riveted on Don, his chest heaving. Don was pulled to his feet, and he jerked his arm angrily out of Wilkes' hands. "He was being shot at, asshole!" he snapped at Wilkes, and he jabbed a finger at the window, where the torn sheer drapery fluttered in the breeze.

The members of the protection unit were already filing back out through the door at a run, and shouted commands could be heard from outside as the men dispersed through the neighborhood, looking for the sniper. The room fell silent, and Don felt every eye on him, appraising, judging. It was suddenly, harshly clear that none of the people in the room trusted him yet, with the exception of Larry and Amita, who didn't know what he'd done. Don could tell by the looks on their faces. Not Colby, not David. Charlie, least of all. He was sitting, backed up against the living room wall, staring at Don as if in some kind of trance, fear still naked on his face.

Amita's voice broke the silence, tremulous and plaintive. "Will someone here please tell me what's going on?"

* * *

Charlie sank shakily onto the sofa, which had been pulled to the side of the room away from the picture window, and took a deep breath. As Wilkes and Colby had helped him to his feet, he'd come slowly, gradually back into the present, out of the nightmarish flashback that had possessed him when he saw Don coming for him across the room. He hadn't even been aware he'd been shot at, at first, until Wilkes murmured in his ear, gently explaining the situation. Wilkes knew somehow that Charlie had been too disoriented to understand what had happened, and as he helped Colby guide Charlie to the sofa, Wilkes said softly, "It's all right. Someone took a shot at you, and Don pulled you down out of the line of fire. Take some deep breaths; relax. Your brother just saved your life."

The others were dragging furniture in a tight group across the floor - that part of the room had no windows and the rest of them were congregating there. Someone had doused the light near the shattered window, plunging that side of the room in darkness. Charlie could see Larry across the room, blinking at him owlishly; one hand plastered to his cheek, and Amita sank onto the sofa beside him, her face filled with fear, confusion, and concern. Alan stood over her shoulder, his expression a mirror of Amita's. "Are you okay?" Amita asked, putting an arm around Charlie and peering into his face.

Charlie nodded. "Yeah." His voice came out sounding cracked, rusty, and he cleared his throat and patted her free hand with what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "I'm fine."

Masters came striding across the room toward them, snapping his cell phone shut. "I just talked to the Director," he said brusquely. "I briefed him on what happened and he gave us the go-ahead to give the basic facts to Doctors Ramanujan and Fleinhardt." He emphasized the words 'basic facts,' and looked directly at Charlie. "They might as well hear it from you, professor. You were the one who wanted to tell them to begin with. Although I'm not so sure about your judgment anymore – you were also the one who thought that there was no more threat. I guess tonight answered that question."

He sounded angry, sarcastic, and as Amita and Larry swung bewildered faces toward Masters, Brian Rogan spoke up, looking at Charlie. "Don't pay any attention to Bill. He gets cranky when he gets worried."

Masters shot him a nasty look, but Rogan's statement broke some of the tension in the room. Charlie could see Ian, Colby, and David all trying to stifle a grin. His eyes passed over their faces and came to rest on Don, who was sitting silently across the room, his body still taut. Don wasn't smiling; he looked upset, and Charlie saw him run a hand through his hair; something he usually only did when stressed. Charlie could feel his heart rate start to accelerate, and he looked away again, quickly, before panic could set in again.

He really wished that Masters would do the speaking; he was still rattled, but the rest of them were all watching him, waiting for him to begin, so he looked at Amita and Larry. "Don and I weren't at Quantico in a class," he said. His voice still sounded shaky, and he cleared his throat again, and tried to speak more steadily. "We were on an undercover assignment. We verified what we were assigned to discover, with the exception of the identity of one of the people involved." He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. He didn't want to tell them more than they needed to know – the less they knew, the safer they would remain. "I can identify that person, and he's still at large, so they put Don and me under protective surveillance. We went to Washington to testify against the rest of the group, but there's – obviously – still a threat from that unknown man. We hadn't seen any sign of him until tonight, and I thought the threat was over." Charlie's gaze flitted uncomfortably to Masters. "I guess I was wrong."

Amita was frowning, her forehead puckered. "And the scars I saw on your chest? Was there really an accident, or was that a story, too?" Charlie could hear the ring of betrayal in her voice.

He looked at her, steadily. "No, there really was an accident." He broke off, and looked at Rogan and Masters helplessly. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Don's face. Don looked miserable, and Charlie realized that he was anticipating Larry and Amita's reactions when Charlie told them what really happened. For the first time that night, Charlie felt something other than fear as he looked at his brother; his heart twisted in sympathy. '_There's no reason for them to know_,' he thought to himself. The room was silent; everyone else there knew the truth, and were waiting to hear what Charlie would tell her. He looked back at Amita, who was eyeing him dubiously.

"There was an accident," he repeated. "We were being extracted, and they tried to run us off the road. Don was hurt – he – had a concussion, but I wasn't. I was attacked later – it, uh -," he paused, and saw Don close his eyes. "I was stabbed." There, he'd said it, without incriminating Don. A look of horror came over Amita's face.

"Charlie!" she breathed, and Charlie heard Larry murmur something unintelligible, distress in his voice.

Charlie swallowed. "I'm fine, okay? It's over." He looked at Don as he said the last two words and saw that his brother's eyes were open again, filled with gratitude that seeped through something darker. Charlie tore his gaze away again – he still couldn't fight back the unreasonable fear that if he made eye contact, Don would come for him again, would lunge at him from the chair across the room. He'd lied again, he knew, as he felt Amita's arms come around him. This was far from over.

* * *

Bill Masters accompanied Don back to his apartment, trailing him up the stairs. There had been an extra man with them, one of the protective detail as a precaution tonight, and he was waiting out in Master's vehicle. Everyone was on high alert now. They'd already boarded up the front window of the Craftsman, and Colby and David had escorted Amita and Larry home. Ian Edgerton had slipped out into the darkness with a few members of the protection detail, looking for the sniper. It hadn't taken them long to determine where he'd taken his shot from, and that he was long gone. The detail had converged back on the house, and tightened up their ring around the grounds. Masters and Rogan had wanted Don to stay there so they didn't have to split up security resources, but Don knew he needed to get out of there – for Charlie's sake, and his own. His own limits had been sorely strained by the excitement and emotion of the night; and it had become apparent to him that Charlie had also reached some kind of limit – had cracked somehow, and it was just as clear that Don was the cause.

So he'd insisted on coming back to his apartment, and had sat silently in Masters' SUV in a suffocating envelope of isolation on the way there. Granted, Charlie hadn't told Larry and Amita the full truth; they didn't know how close Charlie had come to dying, and they didn't know that Don had been the one who had almost sent him there. Don was grateful for that, but really, it didn't matter that Charlie hadn't told them – Don could see their horrified reactions in his mind, just as clearly as if they had been told. He knew exactly how they would look if they knew, could imagine the shock, the revulsion on their faces. It didn't matter, because Don knew the stark, horrible truth.

The worst part of all of it was he didn't see any way out. Even if he got himself back to normal, it wouldn't make any difference if they took Charlie away and put him into witness protection. Plus, if they didn't catch the man, Don would be stuck with the wiring in his head – stuck because he'd impose that on himself. He wouldn't let them remove it as long as he thought that the man might try to contact him, as long as he thought there might be a way to get to the unknown threat, and give Charlie his freedom back. Finding that man was the only way out, and finding him didn't seem very likely at the moment. As he climbed the stairs, his legs felt like lead; the fluorescent lighting made the stairwell look cold, bleak, ugly.

He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping aside to let out the agent who was watching his apartment. The man jumped up guiltily from the sofa, fumbling for the remote and hastily turning off the television before he ducked out through the doorway. Don turned and gave Masters a nod, and Bill said, quietly, "I'll have a man at the bottom of the stairs, and another in your hallway tonight. I'll be outside. We're meeting at your brother's house at eight, remember – I'll pick you up at seven-thirty. See you in the morning."

Don watched them turn for the stairwell, then slowly entered his apartment, and closed and locked the door. He started to cross the room, but stopped as he saw the package on his coffee table. The guard in his apartment should have told him it came, but the man was so flustered when they caught him watching television, it probably had slipped his mind. A whisper of foreboding drifted through Don, as he stepped over to the coffee table. He hadn't ordered anything recently; there was no good explanation for the package. He bent over for a closer look, and then he felt it – an almost imperceptible sensation, odd, yet familiar, in his head. It was followed, as he almost knew it would be, by words.

'_Pick up the package, and open it_.'

The voice in his head was back.

* * *

End Chapter 48

_A/N: Out of the frying pan, into the fire…_


	49. Chapter 49

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 49**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all. Just for you, here's 49._

……………………………………………………………

'_You're alone now, it's safe. Pick up the package, and open it._'

Don froze, his mind racing furiously. He had to be under surveillance somehow, otherwise, how would they, or he, know that Don was in his apartment – _alone_ in his apartment? He had to play along; until he could get to where he could safely tell Masters or Rogan what was happening. Even as he thought that, he could feel uncomfortable sensations starting to rise inside him, a low-level sense of irritation, subdued dark feelings of hatred and anger. His heart gave an uncomfortable leap as he realized that his controller was sending current through his brain, ramping up the negative emotions. He could feel them clearly, but they were manageable. The devices that Dr. Janovic had attached near the batteries in his collarbone were apparently doing their job; keeping the current levels low enough so that Don could stay in control. Still, it was a disturbing sensation.

He reached for the package and tore off the wrapping, his heart lurching yet again as he pulled the familiar denim jacket from the box. This was proof; this was his jacket, and it had come from the slain CIA agent Mike Tate – the man they thought had been killed by Joe Bishop. Not Bishop, as they knew now, but the unknown conspirator – the man who Charlie had seen. Don thought to himself that he should have known that the jacket was in the vicinity as soon as he heard the voice and felt the current; he remembered Wilkes telling him that the jacket contained signal boosters for the signals coming from the controller. If the jacket and its boosters were not within 100 miles of him, the controller wouldn't work.

'_Too bad about Charlie_,' the voice said, '_too bad he wasn't taken care of, tonight. Of course, you'll fix that, won't you?_' Don listened, wondering how the man knew about the hit, and the fact that Charlie had survived it. Whether he ordered the attempted hit or actually was the shooter, the man could not possibly have known for sure whether the bullet had found its mark. Then it came to him; he would not be here at his apartment if Charlie had been hurt, or killed. He would still be at the hospital, or at home with his father at the Craftsman if Charlie had died. The fact that he wandered nonchalantly into his apartment had told the man the result of the attack, even if he hadn't known some other way. The man had probably even heard Masters in the doorway, calmly discussing the meeting the next morning at Charlie's house.

He glanced surreptitiously around the room, wondering again how the man could see him. He'd thought all the cameras had been removed from his apartment, from Charlie's house. Granted, there was one in the jacket, he knew, but the man had known he was there before he'd even taken the jacket out of the package. There had to be a camera somewhere in the apartment. His gut tightened. Maybe there was still a camera at the Craftsman, too. Maybe the man had been listening to all their meetings…

'_You still hate him, you know you do. You've always hated the conceited little bastard_. _Now you need to finish it. You want to finish it, don't you? Say it out loud.' _Before he'd known about the wiring and the auditory device, Don had assumed that the voice in his head was his own. Even now that he knew, it was hard to discern the voice from his own thoughts. He had to think about the actual content of the words, had to analyze which came from him and which from the controller. It wasn't too difficult; he knew as soon as he made the analysis. This man wasn't as skilled as the man who had spoken to him before; he wasn't as good at making the words sound like something that Don might have used himself. Still, he had to think for a split second; it was an extra step, additional reasoning, and it slowed his reactions. "Yes," he whispered, because he knew it was what the controller wanted to hear. "I hate him."

His own words made him want to vomit; he could feel fear clawing its way up his insides. What if Wilkes was wrong and the dampening devices couldn't hold down his emotions well enough?

'_What are you afraid of?_' the voice asked him, and Don's heart dropped as he realized that the man was reading his true emotional state. Of course he was; he held the controls. If Don were going to be believable, he would need to fight back the fear, and force the feelings of hatred and anger. Fighting down the fear would be tough, but hatred and anger would come easily – all Don had to do would be to think of this bastard behind the controls, the man who wanted to kill his brother. '_What are you afraid of?_ _Say it out loud; it will help clarify your thoughts._'

"I'm afraid to die," Don lied, to answer him. "He's surrounded by agents; any attempt to kill him would be suicidal."

'_Tonight will change that_,' said the voice. '_They will want to get him away, and you can be the one to suggest it. You will tell them that you want to take him on a trip. They can make sure that you get safely out of town, but then you will take him somewhere, just the two of you._'

"They'll never agree to that," said Don slowly. He could feel the emotions simmering in his gut, a toxic brew of anger, fear, and hatred.

'_You need to make them agree_,' said the voice. '_There is no alternative. Have you given them any reason not to trust you, to trust that you have recovered? After all, the wiring was removed from your head._'

He was playing with him now, Don thought. The controller knew full well that he had tried to coerce Dr. Janovic into leaving the wiring in, but he didn't know that Janovic had told them about the threat. He would be under the impression that Don and everyone else other than Janovic thought that the wiring had been removed.

"They trust me," Don said aloud. "I haven't done anything since the attack to make them not trust me." That wasn't true, he knew; Wilkes didn't trust him yet, and Charlie… Charlie was still obviously scared to death of him.

'_Then there should be no problem_,' the voice said. '_Do you have a firearm at your disposal?'_

Don purposely made his voice sound flat, mechanical – which wasn't a stretch; he felt like a robot. Even at the low level of current, it was easier to behave the way his controller wanted than to fight it. "They've taken away my service revolver and back-up piece until my reprogramming is complete." There was a brief pause; then the voice spoke again.  
_  
'There is someone who will help you, someone interested, as you are, in removing Charles Eppes, a threat to our country. He will help you get the weapons you need. Tomorrow, you will get up and go speak to the people in charge of your brother's protection detail. Tell them that you want to take him away for his own safety for a few days, while they investigate the attack. You will suggest a hiking trip in the Angeles National Forest, just north of here, beginning the day after tomorrow. You will need to convince the others to let the two of you make the trip alone. They will probably insist that they at least make arrangements to get you out of the area, so they can assure that you are not followed. That is fine; you can agree to any of their restrictions, as long as they do not accompany you on the hike itself. In the meantime, you will hide the jacket until further notice. Now, you will get on your computer, and plan your trip. Once you have the details, you can sleep.'_

Don moved to his computer, his mind turning frantically. Whoever the controller was, he had no grasp of the real situation. There was no way in hell that Masters, Rogan, or Wilkes would allow a trip like that to happen – even if Charlie would agree to go. It was obvious, the man wanted them out alone, either to have Don finish off Charlie, or to make it feasible for the man to do it himself, maybe kill both of them.

He could feel an almost unconscious urge to walk to his computer, and he knew that the man was applying current that was depressing his decision centers, making him open to suggestion. If the devices in his collarbones were not present to reduce that current, Don knew from what Wilkes had told him that he would be at the mercy of the controller – he would have done anything the man asked. To be believable, he had to follow instructions. Well aware that eyes were on him, he sank into the seat at his desk, booted up his laptop, and called up information on the Angeles National Forest.

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J. Scott Marsh watched the dark head bent over the computer screen with a grim smile. The controls worked better than he'd imagined; he'd applied a moderately high current to the decision center of the brain, and it had immediate effects. Don Eppes appeared to take his instructions without question. Marsh imagined that the fact that Eppes had been programmed previously made it easier – apparently, there would be no break-in period; Eppes did not appear to be fighting his commands at all. That was reassuring, because once Eppes was out of his apartment; Marsh would not be able to see him. It would have been good to be able to use the denim jacket and its hidden camera, but Marsh suspected that the other agents already knew about the jacket and its purpose, and he was afraid to let them see it – it would be vital later. It was better to have Eppes pack it away, and only take it out once he and the professor were alone. Marsh would have to trust that the current settings and his instructions would do the job.

Marsh knew he might regret the attempted hit on the professor; it would probably make the agents tighten security even further. However, it had already been too tight before the attempt for anyone to get close. Don Eppes was right; the agents might not allow them to take a trip alone together, and if that were the case, Marsh would have to make other plans. There was a chance they might agree, however, just to get the professor out of the area.

He fiddled with a dial in the vest pocket and locked in the current setting for the decision center. From now until the end of this, Don Eppes would be under its influence, and at the mercy of Marsh's suggestions. In addition, tonight, while he slept, Marsh would bombard Don's subconscious with propaganda, aimed at undoing any deprogramming that had been done so far; aimed at assuring he was turned against Dr. Eppes.

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Jonathan Wilkes eyed the figure slumped on the sofa, then moved to an armchair across from him and sat. Charlie Eppes was staring vacantly at the floor; he hadn't seemed right all evening, and immediately after the shooting had experienced an episode of some kind, a panic attack, or worse. Other than a heavy security detail outside, everyone was gone for the night except Alan Eppes, who at a murmured word from Wilkes, had stepped out to the kitchen on the pretext of dealing with pizza leftovers to allow them to talk in privacy. Now, Wilkes looked at Charlie and asked the question, even though he already knew the answer. "Are you all right?"

Charlie's gaze flickered toward him, then back to the floor. His voice was low and unsteady. "I don't know."

"Something happened," said Wilkes reasonably. "It's obvious. You were extremely uncomfortable around Don tonight, and for a moment after the shooting, you weren't yourself. I don't know where you were or what you were thinking, but it wasn't here, and it wasn't good. You can't keep burying what happened, Charlie; I've told you that already. I have a feeling you're starting to see some of the effects of that."

Charlie looked up at him again, and Wilkes could see a myriad of expressions in his eyes, none of them positive. Dejection, fear, helplessness…. Charlie hesitated for a moment, then spoke, his words uncertain, halting. "I – I've started having these - flashbacks. I keep – keep thinking that Don …." Another pause, but Wilkes kept silent, waiting for him to continue. Charlie looked downward, and after a moment, spoke again, his eyes directed on the floor. "The first one happened this morning in the hallway. I came out of my room and he was there – I – I wasn't expecting to see him. It startled me, I guess. I just –freaked out – for a minute, I really believed I was somewhere else, I was at the FBI offices, and it was happening again – he was coming to kill me. Then tonight, when he pulled me down during the shooting, I did it again. I thought I was in my bedroom on the floor, and he was strangling me… I was so afraid of _him_; I didn't even realize I was being shot at."

His voice cracked and his face contorted suddenly, and he lowered his head and rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand to hide the expression. Wilkes watched him for a moment, then said, "I know it's frightening, but flashbacks are a normal, although extreme, symptom of post traumatic stress disorder, which is treatable. It's something that you may be able to eliminate with time and therapy, and if necessary, medication can be prescribed that will help. My recommendation would be to start with therapy."

Charlie looked at him, miserably. "What if I can't get rid of it? What if Don goes through all this -," he waved his hand vaguely, "goes through all his deprogramming and gets back to normal, and I'm the one who's screwed up?" He closed his eyes and whispered. "I just want things to be normal again."

"And what was normal?" asked Wilkes gently. "Were you satisfied with normal?"

Charlie opened his eyes and snorted, a short, bitter laugh. "As compared to this? You're kidding, right?"

"So you were happy with your relationship with your brother?"

"It wasn't perfect, but we got along okay. We've been working together for five years, and it had been getting better." Charlie sounded a bit defensive.

"The word 'better' would imply that the relationship left something to be desired. Tell me, what would 'better' consist of?"

Charlie shrugged, and looked back at the floor, obviously reluctant to talk. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Closer."

"And what does 'closer' mean to you?"

The shrug became impatient. "I don't know," Charlie said again, with a hint of exasperation at the relentless questioning. "We'd do more stuff together, I guess, outside of work. We'd talk more, about things – things that mean something." He shook his head. "I don't know if Don would want all of that, anyway. I'd just be happy to get back to where we were."

Wilkes was silent for a moment. "Would you be surprised to find that your brother feels the same way? Or at least did, before his programming. I think he _can_ get back to where he was before, Charlie, and I think you'll be able to also, if you start being honest with yourself, and get started on some therapy. In fact, if you both get that far, I think there's a good possibility that you'll wind up even closer after all this is over."

Charlie sighed. "You're right; I need to get my own head on straight. I've been telling myself since this morning that Don wouldn't hurt me now – there's no reason for me to be feeling this way."

Wilkes shook his head. "There you go again – denying. Charlie, there _is_ a reason that you feel that way, a good reason. For one, there's the emotional trauma you suffered; you can't keep burying that. Number two, and I know you don't want to hear this, but I think you sense it, subconsciously – your brother isn't fully deprogrammed yet. He's doing better, but there's a good reason that you subconsciously don't trust him – he's not the Don that you knew, yet. You're pushing too hard for things to be as they were, Charlie – and in the meantime, you're denying the reality of the situation. You need to deal with it, not ignore it, and you need to be patient. If you do that, things will start to turn around."

Charlie looked up at him, anxiously. "How long? And how can I be sure I won't have another flashback? If he knew what I was thinking – that I didn't trust him - I know it would hurt him, maybe even set him back."

Wilkes shook his head. "There are no guarantees, Charlie, and no set time limits. If you have another flashback, we'll just have to deal with it, and Don will, too." He looked at Charlie gravely. "It's important to have hope, Charlie, but I don't want to mislead you. There is a chance he may never get back to where he was before. Looking at his progress so far, I'm optimistic, but nothing in this life is certain, especially the behavior of the human mind. We need to deal with reality, but we need to have faith, too." He rose. "Now I suggest you get some sleep. Don't forget, we're meeting in the morning to discuss what actions to take next."

Charlie watched Wilkes let himself out, then let his head fall back on the sofa back and closed his eyes. Wilkes had to be kidding. How could anyone sleep after that? He was exhausted, though, he could feel it all the way down to his bones.

It was less than fifteen minutes later when Alan came back into the room and found him, completely out. He sank into a chair himself, and sat there studying his youngest. Even in slumber, Charlie wore a slight frown. Alan could sense that he was struggling, that both his sons were struggling with what had happened, but he didn't know how to help them. His heart was heavy with worry, and he, like his boys, was exhausted. He was glad that Charlie was sleeping now; it hadn't come easily to him for the last several nights, Alan knew.

His eyes strayed over to the china cabinet, where he'd hastily tucked the lacquered box of ashes when the boys had returned, planning to get rid of it later. He could see it now, sitting behind the glass with Margaret's collectibles and china, and it occurred to him that he'd never had a chance to ask the agents what was really inside, if not Charlie's ashes. The sight of it called to mind the profound grief he'd felt, only days ago. The memory of that grief was now fading, but in its place, a deep-seated anxiety had taken root. As much as Charlie chafed at his confinement, Alan had to admit, a part of him wanted to keep him here, safe and sound. After thinking he'd lost him, he didn't want to let him out of his sight again. He worried about Don too, but he could hardly argue if Don felt he needed space. God only knew, they had to let Don work through this, take the time he needed to get his head right again. They couldn't afford to push him before he was ready, and cause another - episode. That would be disastrous for both of his sons, and for him.

He heard Charlie stir, and turned his head, to see his son blinking at him, sleepily. Alan smiled softly. "You should go to bed, son."

Charlie didn't reply; he just regarded him somberly for a moment, his eyes still glazed by fatigue. "Do you think Don ever loved me?" he asked suddenly.

Alan face dropped with surprise. "Of course, he did. He's your brother." Too late, he realized he used past tense.

Charlie made a wry expression. "Dad, you and I both know that doesn't mean anything. Family members don't always love each other; they don't even necessarily like each other.

Alan frowned. "What brought this on?"

"Something Wilkes said. I said I would have liked to have been closer to Don, and he told me that Don wanted the same thing, or at least he did before they – programmed him. I know it seemed like we were getting along better, but I just was never sure. Do you think so? That he wanted that?"

Alan nodded, sagely. "Yes, Charlie, I think so. Don isn't one to say much about how he feels, but I know he loved you. In fact, there's hard proof – Wilkes took a printout of how he felt about you before the brainwashing. Don showed it to me – it was a bunch of colored bars, one for each type of emotion, positive and negative. There were a lot of conflicting feelings on that printout – which Wilkes told me is perfectly normal with siblings, but I can tell you the biggest bar on the page was the one over 'love.'"

Charlie's face was wistful. "It's nice to know – that he at least felt that way once."

"He'll get back there again, Charlie," Alan said firmly, but Charlie just rose and turned for the stairs, and in the set of his shoulders was a weary sense of capitulation.

"I don't know, Dad," he said uncertainly. "I hope so. I know he's trying, but I'm not sure if he will. He's trying to hide it, but I think he still hates me."

He moved toward the stairs, and Alan watched him go, defeat in every line of his son's body. The horrible thing was, he feared, deep in his heart, that Charlie was right. There'd been a moment earlier that evening after Don had dove to save Charlie from the bullet, a moment when Don was on top of him, holding him down. Wilkes had yelled at Don to get off, and as Alan had turned stunned eyes toward them, he had realized why. There was an odd, ugly light in his older son's eyes, and although it was hard to tell what his hands were doing – he could have been merely trying to calm Charlie's frantic struggles – it seemed as though they were trying to work their way toward Charlie's neck.

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End Chapter 49


	50. Chapter 50

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 50**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews all, very much. _

* * *

Don followed Masters down the stairwell the next morning, trudging behind him in a sort of reverse deja vu from the night before. He'd slept fitfully; fighting voices in his head all night – voices that whispered poison into his brain, trying to turn him against Charlie. According to instructions, he left the jacket behind, but even without it he didn't dare say anything to Masters until they were outside the building, and then he asked him, "Are you sure your vehicle is clean?"

Masters stopped and stared at him. "Clean? As in bugs – that kind of clean?"

"Keep walking," murmured Don, "and just answer the question."

"I can't imagine that it wouldn't be," said Masters, a frown settling between his eyes as he began to move again. He smoothed it out with an effort, trying to appear normal. Don Eppes apparently thought they were under surveillance.

"When's the last time you had it swept?"

"I couldn't tell you that. It's a rental. Probably never – we didn't see a need."

"Not good enough," muttered Don. "I have something to tell you, but it will need to wait. It's probably best if I tell everyone at once, anyway. How sure are you that you have all the cameras out of the house?"

"We're sure. Wilkes knew exactly where they were, because they used them several times when they were working you and Charlie."

"I hope so, because you guys missed one at my apartment," Don said.

Masters flicked a glance around them and said quietly, "We left one there on purpose to help your protective detail. Why?"

"I'll tell you at Charlie's house," replied Don. They'd reached the SUV, and he climbed in. Masters stared at him for a split second, then went around and got behind the wheel.

"Can we stop for a coffee?" asked Don. His voice was light, his demeanor casual.

Masters turned the key in the ignition, trying to fight down a feeling of paranoia. "Sure," he said, "No problem."

They were the last to arrive. The front of the house looked marred; the plywood over the window a stark reminder of what had happened the night before. The others – Ian Edgerton, Colby, David, Wilkes and Rogan were there already, gathered in the dining room, along with Charlie. Don saw Charlie's eyes dart toward him; his brother still looked edgy, but his gaze lingered just a bit longer this time.

Masters fiddled with his phone, pretending to try to connect to CIA Director Conaghan's office at Langley, and then said, "I'm not getting a signal in here," he said. "Let's try out in the garage." Rogan and Edgerton looked at him strangely, then at Don, but didn't say a word as the group trouped through the kitchen - past Alan, who stared at them - and out to the garage. There were two of the protection detail members inside, and Masters shooed them out and shut the door, then hit dial on his cell phone. He looked at Wilkes and Rogan as he did so. "You guys are sure we got all the cameras out of the house? I know we're clean in here."

Rogan nodded. "Wilkes accounted for them all. We swept for bugs as recently as two days ago. Why?"

"I don't know," replied Masters, as Conaghan came on the line. "Eppes is going to tell us." He broke off. "Hello, Director."

"I've got Director Maxwell with me," came Conaghan's voice. "Eppes is going to tell us what?"

All eyes swung toward Don, including Charlie's, dark and watchful. "I was contacted last night," said Don. "He's turned on the controls."

"What?" exclaimed Wilkes. He stared at Don. "I'm assuming the dampening devices are doing what they're supposed to be doing?"

Don shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under their scrutiny. He could see the looks on their faces – if he wasn't to be trusted before, they certainly didn't trust him now. Charlie's eyes had widened, and he was staring at him as if in a trance. "Yes," Don replied. "I can feel it, but it's manageable. I walked into my apartment last night, and I could feel the power come on in my head, could hear him talking to me. He sent me the denim jacket – it came via Express Packaging – their Santa Monica hub. He had to be watching me through the camera in my apartment, because he knew I was there, even before I opened the jacket. He knows, or guessed, that the attempt last night was unsuccessful."

Rogan and Masters exchanged a glance and Rogan spoke. "Did he tell you what he wanted?"

Don nodded, and looked at Charlie. "He wants Charlie and me to go on a hiking trip, alone, in the Angeles National Forest, starting tomorrow."

"What?" exclaimed Masters. "Is he nuts?"

"That, or desperate," said Conaghan. "This might be our opportunity, gentlemen. We can play along; perhaps draw him out in the open."

It had never occurred to Don that they might actually try to cooperate with the controller, and the thought made his gut contract in fear at the risk. At the same time, a wild hope sprang inside him. This was it – finally, an opportunity to get the man, an opportunity to put it all behind them.

There was silence for a moment; then Masters said, "Agent Eppes, Doctor Eppes, why don't you head out for a moment? Go have a cup of coffee with your dad. We need to discuss this."

Don shot a look toward Charlie, trying to gauge his reaction. His brother stood silently across the garage, next to one of his chalkboards. '_Right where he belongs,'_ thought Don. _'Right here, not running around out in the woods with a killer.'_ Especially if the killer could be him. He could feel emotions roiling inside, and he wasn't sure if the feelings were generated by the controller, or were his own. Charlie looked at him; then slowly began to move toward the door, and Don followed him outside.

* * *

As soon as they were gone, Wilkes snapped, "There's no way. I wouldn't put them alone together yet in the same house, much less in a stressful situation in the middle of nowhere. Don's not ready yet, plus he's fighting the controller now, and Charlie's having issues of his own."

Rogan frowned. "It seems to me that Don is fairly well recovered. You don't think he can be trusted?"

"I don't know," said Wilkes, with exasperation. "Those devices we attached decrease the current going in, but they amplify every signal coming out; it's impossible for me to tell how he really is. And keep in mind, from now all the way through this, his mind will be under a constant barrage of current. If he's on the edge, even reduced current for that length of time might push him backwards."

David and Colby looked at each other with alarm, and David said, "I have to agree, I don't think this is a good idea."

"You got that right," muttered Colby, nodding emphatically. Ian Edgerton said nothing; he merely listened, his dark eyes inscrutable.

"Well, then, why did we put the devices in to begin with, if you don't think they'll protect him?" said Conaghan.

"For a situation like this – so that Don would have a chance to give us some warning if he was contacted. The devices weren't intended to be a long-term solution," responded Wilkes. "They may offer enough protection; they may not. We simply don't know – and that's not good enough. How do we even know if the man will show himself? He may simply try to use Don to get to Charlie from a remote location – he may not even be anywhere that we could see him. We could put them at risk for nothing."

"I've got to believe that the man will be somewhere in the area, where he can verify what's going on, maybe even try to go for both them himself," argued Masters. "We would only pretend to send them out alone – we could have people in the area, and Agent Edgerton could lead a surveillance team to keep visual contact. We'd only have to keep them out long enough for our tracking team to spot the man and apprehend him, and the Eppes brothers would be under constant surveillance. Maybe he won't show – but if he does, it could be our one chance to get the guy. I say we ask them – if they're willing, I think we should try it."

……………………………………………

Charlie paused outside, and looked at Don. They had a decision to make, and in a way, this was a repeat of weeks ago, when Rogan and Masters had first asked them to go undercover. Then, Charlie had been brash, naïve. He'd made up his own mind without listening to his brother – and they'd both paid as a result. Now, they were facing a similar choice, and Charlie knew he couldn't make it himself. He was too shaken, too uncertain, his world rocked by the recent events – and considering the outcome of the first decision, he didn't want to risk making another. He would follow Don's lead this time, he decided, and he had a good idea of what that would be. Don had been vehemently opposed to him going undercover the first time – of course he would say 'no' to this; this was even riskier – they would purposely be facing a man who wanted them dead.

He glanced at Don again, nervously. "So what do you think?"

"I think we should do it, Charlie," said Don. Charlie's heart plummeted, and he stared back at him, stunned.

Don was looking at him earnestly. "We have a chance to end this – no more threats, no witness protection - it can all be over. If they have people in the field around us, it should be okay, and I know it's hard after what happened, but you have to believe that I'll do anything to keep you safe. I think we can minimize the risk, and I want to get him. He's been like this – presence – hanging over us. When we signed up for that undercover operation, we took it on to stop them, and we didn't complete the mission if we don't bring this guy in. I want to get him for what he's done, for what he made me do – but most of all, for what he might do yet."

For a moment, Charlie could do nothing but stare. '_I can't do this_,' he thought to himself wildly. His heart was thumping uncomfortably just being alone in the back yard with Don for a few minutes – how on earth would he be able to handle a trip to a remote location that could take hours, even days? This didn't even sound like something Don would say – perhaps he wasn't right yet. He forced himself to keep Don's gaze, forced himself to look deep in his eyes, but he saw nothing there but steadiness, and the flicker of hope. Don was looking for something, Charlie suddenly realized, a sign that Charlie had faith in him, and the thought generated a burst of wild hope. Maybe Don was right; this was a chance to move on, in more ways than one - and although the idea terrified him, he couldn't let Don think that he didn't trust him. "Okay," said Charlie finally, and the word made it out past the lump in his throat. "We'll do it."

…………………………………………

Rogan opened the door, intending to head for the house, but found the Eppes brothers standing right there, in the yard. He ushered them in, and Masters looked at them. "We need to know if you are interested in pursuing this."

"Yes," said Don quietly. "We are. We talked outside."

Wilkes stared at him, nonplussed. He had been certain that neither of them would have gone for the idea, and here Don stood, calmly telling them that they were prepared to cooperate. In truth, he had thought Don had come a long way, and the idea that Don would willingly put not only himself but also Charlie at risk both surprised and disturbed him. He shifted his gaze to Charlie. Surely, Charlie hadn't agreed… Charlie said nothing, just stood there silently, and Wilkes frowned.

David and Colby exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

Wilkes shook his head. "Neither one of you is in a good mental state for something this risky. I have to say that I violently disagree with this whole concept."

Charlie finally spoke. "And what are the other options? Looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life? Putting my friends and family in danger? Witness protection?" His words backed his brother, but his voice lacked conviction.

Wilkes looked at Don, still trying to determine what had transpired outside. He turned to Charlie and indicated the rest of the group with a sweep of his hand. "Charlie, you can't listen to them. Of course they're going to tell you they want you to do it – they want to catch a high-level traitor, and they don't give a shit about you or your brother."

"You'd better remember who you're speaking about, Agent Wilkes," Conaghan's growl floated out from the phone.

Wilkes continued, passionately. "With all due respect, sir, it's the truth. We're supposed to apprehend a traitor. That's your job, that's their job, that's my job. Charlie is a civilian, and it's not his job. He deserves to have someone tell him that."

"It may not be my job, but it's my life," said Charlie levelly. "Don and I already talked. We're going to do this, and that's our answer."

Wilkes looked at him, and then at Don, in dismay. He would have bet anything that Charlie would have refused this assignment, and he wondered what Don Eppes had done to change his mind. Don Eppes stared back at him, his eyes flat, unreadable.

* * *

Alan looked up as Charlie and Don came back through the kitchen, both of them looking somber. Their expressions made Alan's anxiety level ratchet up a notch. "What's going on?" he asked, a little too heartily.

Charlie glanced uncertainly at Don; there was still fear in that glance, Alan thought. Don spoke. "Charlie and I need to go away tomorrow for a day or two – hopefully not too long."

Alan stared at him, his face blanching. He tried to assume a normal expression, but his face felt as though it had stiffened into plaster. "Alone?" he said, trying to sound as if there was nothing wrong with that.

"No, the team will be with us," Don replied. "It'll be okay, Dad."

Alan looked at his younger son. Charlie looked – not himself. He stood there, pale, thin, uncertain. With a glance at Don, he said, his words an eerie echo, "It'll be okay, Dad." Then he put his head down, and headed across the kitchen floor. "I have to go pack," he mumbled.

Don's eyes followed him until Charlie pushed through the door, out of sight. Then he looked at Alan. "I'll watch over him, Dad, I promise."

Alan's heart caught. In those dark eyes, for a moment, he saw his older son, Don, the way he used to be. The moment hung there, bittersweet, yet filled with something ominous. Then a veil dropped over his son's eyes, and Don turned and walked away.

* * *

Don climbed the stairs back to his apartment, and with a nod at Masters, slipped inside. There was no agent watching the apartment this morning – Masters had called the man away, on purpose. They were trying to give the mystery man some room to maneuver, to make things easier for him, so they could set up the sting. They'd left the camera in the apartment for the same reason – they couldn't afford for the man to know that Don wasn't the only one who knew of his plans. If they removed the camera, he'd get suspicious.

Don shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, fighting the fatigue, the noise in his head. The constant surge of current through his brain was wearing him down; it was getting harder to think straight. He still wasn't sure he'd made the right decision this morning. He could make black-and-white judgments; the controller didn't have enough sway over him yet for him to get confused over something obvious. It was the obscure stuff, the gray stuff, that was not clear. The decision to go on the trip with Charlie was one of those gray areas – it wasn't an easy decision; there were pros and cons. Don couldn't help but wonder if the controller was the deciding factor in any matter that was less than clear-cut. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd just made a decision that he wouldn't have ordinarily made – a decision to take Charlie somewhere he shouldn't be taking him. He couldn't think…

'_How did it go?_' The voice was there, asking specific questions now. It had been there last night and this morning, whispering words of hatred in his head. Now it was talking to him instead of at him, wanting an answer.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning," Don said, loudly enough so that the camera could pick up his voice. "They're driving us up as far as the junction of the Angeles Forest Highway and the Angeles Crest Highway. They'll make sure we aren't being followed; then they'll let us go on without them."

'_Good_,' said the voice. '_Bring your jacket and backpacking gear. Park at the parking spot for the Ridgeline trailhead, and go in there. You'll take Ridgeline in to the Mountain-to-Sea trail. It's a longer trail; it takes about four days to walk the whole thing; bring gear and enough supplies for that period of time. Stay on it and keep going west. You'll know what to do when the time comes_. _Now, I want you to go out in the hallway, to __the__ trash flue on the landing above the stairway. Open the door to the flue; you will find a package, taped to the inside wall above the door. Bring it back here and open it.'_

Don had still been leaning against his apartment door, and with a sinking feeling, he pulled himself upright, then turned and opened it. With a quick look up and down the empty hallway, he stepped across it and opened the door to the landing to the stairs. He opened the door of the flue, felt around the inside wall, found the package and pulled it out, then replaced the lid and stepped quickly back across the hall. He went back inside and closed the door to his apartment, and tore open the package, slowly, carefully, because he knew what was inside, he could feel it through the heavy brown wrapping. The blue-black gleam of gunmetal hit his eyes, as he turned the sleek Beretta in his hands. He checked; it was loaded, and along with it were two extra clips of ammunition. There was one more object, which prompted a visceral reaction, however, and made his heart twist. With an impending sense of dread, he lifted out a lethal-looking knife in a scabbard.

* * *

End Chapter 50


	51. Chapter 51

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 51**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all. From them, I take it you're keeping up, and am doing my best to keep the chapters coming. Here's 51…_

……………………………………………………………

David stepped away to a corner of the garage to answer his cell phone. "Yeah. Okay, thanks, Nikki."

He turned and stepped back to face Rogan, Wilkes, Masters, Ian, and Colby. After the Eppes brothers had gone, the agents had stayed behind to discuss the impending trip, and had been meeting for nearly an hour. Toward the beginning of the meeting, David had called Nikki and asked her to run over to the Santa Monica office of Express Packaging to see if she could get a description of the man who had dropped off the package. She'd just reported in, and he looked at the group. "Nikki said the woman told her that the package had been dropped off with a hold order over three weeks ago. No one there remembers what the man looked like; too much time had passed since then. The man paid cash, and the return address was to John Smith, and a P.O. box."

Colby grunted. "I'd bet any money the return address is more fictional than the name."

Masters looked at the rest of the group, except for Wilkes, who sat behind him in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, his posture and his expression clearly conveying that he was protesting the proceedings. "All right, so Ian, Granger, and Sinclair will make up the surveillance unit," Masters said, continuing the conversation that David's phone call had truncated. "You guys are going to have to hang well back - if he sees you before you see him, you'll spook him."

Wilkes spoke, reluctantly. "Don's denim jacket contains a tracking device. I can call down to Cypress Institute and get the GPS locator."

Masters shot him a quick look and nodded with approval. "Good. We can put one on Charlie, too, although the surveillance team should have them in sight at all times."

Wilkes rose wearily. "Just to be safe, you should give Charlie some distress signals, privately, without Don's knowledge. He'll have to know about the surveillance, but we should keep quiet about anything we don't absolutely have to tell him."

Rogan frowned. "What are you saying?"

Wilkes' eyes flared. "I'm saying what I've been saying from the start. This is a bad idea."

Rogan, normally unflappable, bristled. "And I think you're paranoid. Eppes nearly took a bullet last night, diving to pull Charlie down out of the line of fire. Or maybe you missed that."

"And the adrenaline rush did something nasty to him. Did you see his face afterward? I had to pull him off. Or maybe you missed _that_," Wilkes shot back, his face flushing with anger.

"I didn't see that," growled Masters.

"I did," said Ian Edgerton. His quiet voice was more powerful than a shout, and captured the attention of everyone in the room. "His face changed. It didn't mean he was going to act on whatever he was feeling – or that he was even angry with Charlie." He looked directly at Wilkes. "Maybe he was pissed off at the man who shot at his brother. We can't know, and it doesn't do any good to speculate. Granger, Sinclair, and I will just need to stay on top of them, that's all."

Masters chimed in, "We'll have a command post set up in the area, just a few miles away. We can send in reinforcements, cordon off the area if our mystery man shows. Unfortunately, we can't use a wire or even a radio except in an emergency; the camera in the denim jacket would pick up anything that Don or Charlie might say. We'll meet with Don later, set up some signals that he can give the surveillance unit if he feels that either he or Charlie is in trouble. We can do the same with Charlie." His voice was curt, dismissive. He moved on with the planning, patently ignoring Wilkes, who stood there for a moment, then shook his head, and walked out.

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Alan looked up from the sink as Jonathan Wilkes pushed through the kitchen door and paused. "Where's Charlie?" he asked, and Alan inclined his head in the general direction of the living room and the stairs.

"He went upstairs to pack."

Wilkes hesitated. "Do you mind if I go up to talk to him?"

Alan gestured. "Be my guest." It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what was going on; but something in the way Wilkes avoided his gaze made him think that he might not get an answer, anyway. Moments later, David and Colby pushed through the door on their way back through to pick up their jackets, which they had left in the dining room. They each murmured a polite apology for the intrusion and smiled wan identical smiles that did nothing to hide the troubled expressions in their eyes. It was then that Alan knew that the anxiety he felt was warranted, and he promptly wiped his hands, and headed for the stairs, catching a glimpse of Colby and David on their way out the front door.

Alan ascended the stairs purposefully; he had every intention of walking in and simply asking what was going on, but as he reached the hallway, he could hear Wilkes' voice, and he found himself slowing to a stop in the hall, listening.

"Just out of curiosity, what did he say to you?"

There was a pause, and Alan could almost see Charlie's shrug. "Just what we said. It's a good chance to end this thing once and for all."

Alan stepped forward until he could see through the doorway. He wasn't trying to hide himself, but Charlie was moving back and forth, listlessly pulling clothing from a drawer and folding it on the bed, and Wilkes' back was turned; neither of them noticed him. Charlie kept his eyes down; he wasn't meeting Wilkes' gaze, Alan realized. His son was trying to keep his expression bland, but Alan could see tension in it. Whatever was going on, Charlie wanted no part of it – yet he was going along with it.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No!" Charlie's head shot up at that, and he stared at Wilkes. "Of course not." They locked eyes for a moment, and then Charlie's gaze faltered and he turned away.

"You don't have to do this, Charlie. It's okay to say 'no.'" Wilkes' voice had turned gentle, but Alan had heard enough.

"Don't have to do what?" he asked sharply, stepping through the door.

Wilkes and Charlie both looked at him guiltily, and Charlie, flushing, said, "Nothing, Dad."

Wilkes looked pointedly at Charlie, as if daring him to speak. "Why don't you tell him? Conaghan's cleared him, you know that."

Charlie shot him a sharp look, then turned to Alan and paused just long enough for Alan to know a falsehood was on the way. "It's nothing, really. We're just going on a trip – all of us. You knew that – we told you."

Alan's eyes narrowed, but he tried to look nonchalant. "Yes, so then what's the big deal? Why wouldn't you want to go?"

"Who says I don't want to go?" Charlie retorted, defensively. Alan could see frustration rising in his face. "I'm fine with this – now why don't you get out, and let me pack?" He turned his back on them, and they hesitated for a moment, then Wilkes moved out of the room, and Alan fell into step beside him in the hallway.

"Well, then, maybe _you_ can tell me," said Alan a bit crossly. "Where _are_ you going?"

Wilkes' face was expressionless. "You sons are going on a hiking trip, ostensibly alone. They'll be under surveillance the whole time, but the team will need to keep their distance."

Alan's face contorted in bewilderment, and he stopped at the top of the stairs. "A hiking trip? What on earth – why?"

Wilkes paused and faced him. "Don was contacted by our unknown man last night. He's turned on the current in Don's head again, and has been speaking to him since yesterday. The man thinks he's in control, and has instructed Don to bring Charlie on this trip, obviously to get them alone. Masters and Rogan are going to try to set him up - see if the man makes an appearance anywhere in the area, with a plan to apprehend him before he tries anything."

Alan stared at him, aghast. "But neither of them is ready for something like this – and to use my sons as bait…?" His voice trailed off, rising, as Wilkes turned and started down the stairs. "You can't do this!"

Wilkes kept moving. "That's what _I_ told them," he tossed over his shoulder, and he strode for the front door, letting himself out, as Alan stared in stunned incredulity after him.

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Robin paced the length of her living room, turning quickly on her heel as a knock sounded on the door. She flew to open it, stepping aside to let Don in, and tried not to slam the door in Bill Masters' face as he waited outside.

"I can't stay," said Don. "I have a lot to do. They're going to take Charlie and me away for a few days."

She shook her head at him, in angry bewilderment. "I know what you're doing – I called the office looking for you, and Colby told me."

Don's face darkened. "He shouldn't have done that."

Her eyes flashed. "I'm cleared; there was no reason he couldn't. And you shouldn't be doing _this_! Don, what in the hell are you thinking?" Her expression softened, and her eyes searched his face, anxiously. "Are you ready for this? And what about Charlie?"

"We're as ready as we're gonna get." It was Don's voice, but his eyes were strange, hard and unreadable. "We don't have a choice. The man is calling the shots; we have to roll with it if we're going to catch him."

She shook her head, slowly, her eyes still on his face. "Don, I – well, you know better than anyone, I guess, if you're up to this, but - ," she paused, waiting for him to say something, but he was silent. She was afraid for him, and afraid for Charlie, afraid of what it would do to Don if anything happened to his younger brother on his watch. She'd seen the burden he'd carried the last few weeks, and knew how close to the edge he was walking, mentally. "Just be careful. Please." She tiptoed and leaned forward to kiss him, and he barely responded – he didn't lean forward and inclined his head only slightly. When their lips met, it was like kissing a stranger.

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Colby flexed his shoulders and rolled his head, trying to loosen the knots in his neck. The day and evening had flown by in a frenzy of preparation, and it was about ten a.m., roughly twenty-four hours since Don had told them he'd been contacted. Colby was now standing near the garage with David, waiting for Charlie to come out of the house. Don had pulled his SUV back to the garage to pack it, trying to get it off the street and keep their activities out of sight as much as possible. Colby doubted the man was anywhere near, however; he was too smart for that. No doubt, he was already somewhere up near the Angeles National Forest, waiting for them.

He and David continued to stuff gear in bags, wondering when Charlie would show. They had to give him his GPS tracking chip and a few last minute instructions, words that weren't meant for Don's ears. He rubbed the back of his head, uncomfortably. "This sucks," he muttered.

David straightened, glanced at him, and then trained his dark sunglasses out on the yard. "Yeah? Which part?" His lips quirked in a half smile, half grimace.

"All of it," grumbled Colby. "Don just - doesn't seem right. I can't put my finger on it, but he's not himself. I'm worried about him – and I'm worried about Charlie. What if Wilkes is right? Don just isn't acting normally."

David kept his eyes on the yard. "You can hardly blame him. Maybe he's not normal per se – but it doesn't mean he's a danger to Charlie."

"Maybe not," Colby said, as Charlie stepped out of the back door. "But the Don I know would never ask Charlie to do this."

David shot him a sharp glance as Masters directed Charlie toward them. "Who says he did? Charlie made it sound like a joint decision."

"Charlie said so," murmured Colby, as he watched the slight figure drop his backpack next to the SUV. Masters pulled him aside and spoke quietly to him, and Charlie nodded and began to cross the lawn toward them, as Colby continued. "I asked him point blank this morning if it was Don's idea, and he said yes. He backpedaled fast, and said that he agreed with him, but I'm not so sure he really does."

David stared at him for a moment; then turned his eyes on Charlie as he approached them, trying to mask the concern on his face with a smile. "Hey, Charlie."

Colby fished the GPS tracker out of his pocket, and put an arm around Charlie's shoulders, trying not to look shocked as his arm rested on what felt like bone under Charlie's baggy shirt. His grip was brief, and he gave Charlie an affectionate shake that masked the movement of his other hand as he slipped the GPS tracker into Charlie's palm. "Put that in your pocket, and keep it with you," he said, under his breath. "It's a GPS tracker. No one needs to know about it but you." More overtly, he handed Charlie a radio, as Charlie slipped the tracker in his pocket. "Keep that in your backpack."

Ian Edgerton had sauntered casually across the lawn to join them. "Don't stick with a situation that doesn't feel right," he added softly, his smile belying the content of his words. "If something spooks you, get out. We'll be watching; we'll catch up with you. We'll be behind you on the trail – if you can, head back the way you came; you'll reach us faster. If you can't run, do something big that we can pick up from a distance – wave your arms over your head."

"Thanks," said Charlie quietly. "We'll be okay." He glanced over his shoulder across the yard at Don, uncertainty in his gaze, and Colby studied him. Colby had stated that Don didn't seem himself; Charlie was actually worse. His normally rounded, boyish face was drawn; his usual breezy self-confidence shattered. He was thin, pale, barely recovered from his injuries, a shadow of his former self, mentally and physically. Colby wouldn't have bet that he would have made it a lap around the local park, much less survive a backpacking trip across hilly terrain. His earlier conviction was growing stronger by the minute. '_This is a really lousy idea_,' he repeated to himself, for at least the tenth time. He watched as Don, Rogan, and Masters headed toward them, watched Charlie's shoulders tense at his brother's approach.

"We ready?" asked Don. His eyes rested on Charlie, briefly, and Colby tried to determine an expression in them, with no success. Don's gaze flicked over the group. "I've got the denim jacket packed, but he's going to instruct me to take it out and put it on when we get up there and the rest of you disperse. As soon as I do that, Charlie and I will to have to watch what we do or say – he'll have a visual on anything in front of me, and an audio on anything around us." He looked at Charlie. "It's gonna be like New Orleans, Charlie, when we had the bug in our room; we'll have to be careful what we discuss, but with the camera, we'll also have to watch our expressions and gestures – especially you. When I'm facing you, the camera will pick you up."

Charlie nodded, soberly. "I've got it." Colby relaxed, just slightly – Don's expression was unreadable, but he certainly sounded normal, in full possession of his faculties.

Edgerton spoke up. "Cell phone service isn't great out there. We gave Charlie a radio, but the camera will pick up any attempt at conversation, so you shouldn't use it unless it's a true emergency. Rogan, Masters, and Wilkes will follow you on the ride up, pretending to make sure that you aren't followed. As soon as they hit the junction of the Angeles Forest Highway and the Angeles Crest Highway, they'll peel off, and begin observing phone and radio silence, as far as both of you are concerned. Colby, David, and I are heading up separately, and we'll get to a spot near the trailhead to wait for you. We'll be well behind you on the trail; within field glass range but no closer, at least until we get a line of sight on our man. We can't afford for him to pick us up."

There was a pause as he waited for questions, and when there were none, Masters nodded. "I think we're set. Good luck, gentlemen."

Colby watched the two brothers walk away across the lawn with a sinking feeling in his heart. He knew from a prior experience that if Charlie confided in anyone about something that might be bothering him, it would probably be him. He felt responsible somehow, and the look that Charlie gave him right before he turned away hadn't helped matters. He'd hesitated for just a split second, his dark eyes had met Colby's; and for an instant, Colby thought that Charlie was about to tell him something, ask him something. Then he turned away and the moment was gone, but it left Colby wondering if he shouldn't have done something more to make sure that Charlie was truly okay with the plan. Maybe Charlie felt that he couldn't contradict Don; maybe he'd been hoping that someone would step in and call off this craziness, maybe all Charlie needed was someone to vindicate his own fears by standing up and declaring the mission a venture in insanity, and Colby had let him down. He'd said nothing, and let him walk away.

"What's the matter?" asked David, and Colby tore his eyes off Don's SUV as it pulled out of the driveway.

"Nothing," Colby muttered crossly. "Let's get this shit packed up and get moving."

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Charlie wasn't sure what he'd envisioned on the ride up, but it wasn't complete and total silence. It was suffocating; and filled with tension. Charlie had thought that perhaps they'd get a chance for a few last bits of conversation and planning before Don had to take his jacket out, but Don kept his eyes grimly on the highway ahead and his lips tightly closed. It made Charlie wonder if Don thought that the jacket, even packed away as it was in the rear of the vehicle, could pick up conversation, and so he too, kept his mouth shut, and his eyes on the road. His gaze was better off there anyway when he was so tense; he was still a little afraid that if he looked at Don too long he'd experience another flashback. Especially when Don looked as he did now - cold, dark, forbidding.

It made Charlie wonder what was going on in his head, and he chanced a sideways glance. Was the man talking to Don now, whispering plans, filling his head with hatred?

He wrenched his gaze back to the road, his gut flipping as he saw the sign for the Angeles Forest Highway, synonymous in his mind with the point of no return. Don slowed slightly as he passed the intersection, and picked up speed again on the other side, continuing down the Angeles Crest Highway. Charlie stole a glance in the side rearview mirror. Rogan, Masters, and Wilkes had been behind them the whole way, pretending to make sure that Don and Charlie weren't being followed to make it look believable in case they were being watched, and as Charlie looked in the mirror, he saw them swerve onto the Angeles Forest Highway - they'd turned off, as planned. They would make sure there was no one following them, and then proceed to the command post about ten miles away, where they would set up radio contact with Edgerton, Granger, and Sinclair, and the rest of the tactical team, which was being spread out throughout the area. In spite of all the manpower around them, however, Charlie knew that for practical purposes, he and Don were now alone.

Don drove on for a few more miles, and then pulled into the parking area for the Ridgeline Trailhead. There was a single vehicle there; otherwise, the lot was deserted. Charlie imagined the trail didn't see too many hikers at the beginning of March; the coastline was temperate, but the mountains were cold. The sun was shining brightly, but as Charlie slid out of the vehicle the brisk wind made him shiver and pull his jacket around him.

He stood near the rear of the vehicle as Don zipped open his backpack and pulled out the denim jacket; then lifted out a folded sweatshirt, holding it carefully. He took a quick look around the area, then pulled a gun in a holster from the bundled sweatshirt, and strapped it on with practiced ease. The sight of it made Charlie's stomach twist with apprehension. It was a stark reminder of the danger they were facing, and he tried to compose his features as Don slipped on the denim jacket and turned toward him. Charlie tried not to look directly at the buttons, one of which held the lens. "Nice day for a hike," Don said for the camera, and smiled, his dark eyes glittering in the bright sunlight, before he slipped on his sunglasses.

Charlie forced a smile in return, fighting the shudder that ran down his spine.

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End Chapter 51

_A/N: The Angles National Forest and the highways mentioned are real, as is the town of Three Points, mentioned later. The trails and their descriptions are fictional. _


	52. Chapter 52

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 52**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. _

* * *

J. Scott Marsh narrowed his eyes and looked through his binoculars, scanning the trail behind him. He knew the Eppes men were on the trail, the camera told him that, but he didn't expect to see them yet - he was at least four hours in, and they had started out two hours ago. No, he wasn't looking for them; he was looking for signs of other hikers, or of any sign that the Eppes brothers had company. He'd left his car at a motel in a small nearby town called Three Points, and hitched a ride through the park to the trailhead. He didn't want to chance leaving his vehicle at the parking area, or any other trailhead nearby. So far, he had seen only one other hiker on the trail; the man was traveling alone and had already hiked on past, oblivious to Marsh's presence as he sat tucked up in some rocks on a ridge. The man appeared to be geared for overnight hiking, and was moving at a good clip. Chances were good he was doing the Mountain-to-Sea trail, and would be long gone before the Eppes brothers made an appearance. For now, it appeared they had the trail to themselves, which boded well. Marsh really was in no hurry, however. It would be best for his plans to unroll a day or two into the hike, and preferably not on a day with such exceptional visibility. There was a bank of fog sitting off the coast, threatening to move inland. If it did, it would give him cover, or he could make his move at night, in the darkness.

Marsh smiled and lifted the collar of his vest with its imbedded microphone closer to his lips and, glancing down at the papers in front of him, began to speak into it. Dr. Allman had tucked notes in the vest – not just information concerning how to use it, but also Jonathan Wilkes' notes from the brainwashing sessions. They contained a good deal of personal information, including some of Don's private thoughts concerning his brother, and stories from their past. It was excellent material for playing with Don Eppes' head, and Marsh took advantage of it whenever he had the opportunity; in fact, he rather enjoyed it. He knew Don Eppes had fought the commands to kill his brother, originally, and he suspected that he might resist again. That was why he was here, himself, to make sure that this time Don sealed the deal. Marsh would kill them himself, if he had to, but it would be much better for it to look like a murder-suicide. He spoke softly into the microphone, and watched the colored bars on the screen flicker at the sound of his voice.

* * *

Three figures in camouflage crept to the top of the ridgeline, and scanned the valley and the winding trail below. Ian Edgerton squinted into the afternoon sun through his field glasses, surveying the trail, and paused. "There they are," he said. "About ten o'clock."

Colby and David raised their own sets of binoculars, focusing in on a section of trail winding along the left side of the valley, picking up Charlie first, who was several yards behind Don. David made a rueful face. "It looks like Charlie's already dragging a little."

"I was afraid of that," Ian replied softly. "He didn't look up to this, yet." He pulled down his glasses. "We each need to pick a man. If things are quiet, we can all spend time on general surveillance, and on looking for the perp. If something starts to happen, however, we each need to focus on one person in case they split up, especially if they happen to be moving quickly, or we'll lose them. Granger, why don't you take Charlie, and Sinclair, you can take Don. I'll back you up until the suspect shows up." They nodded, and Ian lifted his binoculars back to his face.

He swung his glasses in a slow arc, scanning the surrounding valley. "No sign of our boy, yet. For Charlie's sake, we'd better hope he shows up sooner, rather than later."

* * *

Alan surveyed the new window in the living room, and gave the installer a nod. "Yes, it looks fine. Thank you." He signed the paper on the clipboard the man had given him, and the installer ducked his head in return and loped out the door, pausing to help his assistant collect equipment. As Alan gazed absently out the window, a car pulled into view, and he groaned, inwardly. Amita. Ordinarily, he would be happy to see her, but she didn't know the details of Don and Charlie's trip, only that they were away for their own safety until the unknown man was caught, and he hated to lie to her. More to the point, he was afraid he couldn't; he was a bundle of nerves, and he feared she would notice his distress.

He reluctantly moved to the front door, and opened it as she approached the stoop. "Oh, hi, Alan," she said, breathlessly. She was asking questions before she even got inside. "Any word from Don or Charlie?"

"No," said Alan, turning from her toward the kitchen. "They said they would be out of contact for a while. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes," she sighed, as she trailed him into the kitchen. "I know Charlie said that, but I was hoping maybe one of them would get a chance to call, occasionally. I figured you'd be the best bet. This whole thing makes me so nervous – I don't know what we're going to do, if they don't find that man."

Alan filled the teapot at the tap, hoping she didn't see his shaking hands. Better to skip the tea, himself; he'd never get the cup to his lips. Her last statement echoed in his head. He was afraid they _would_ find the man, and was terrified of what would happen when they did.

* * *

Don paused for the twentieth time, and looked back along the trail. He could see Charlie several yards below him, plodding up the incline, struggling for air. The voice played in Don's head, a relentless stream of vitriol. '_Look at him, the worthless piece of scum. He was never as good as you, especially at anything physical. The only thing he excelled at was flaunting his superior intellect. Well, that will be over soon. Who's the smart one now?' _Charlie stumbled a little on the trail below, and Don felt a surge of impatience.

"Come _on_, Charlie."

Charlie's head came up, and Don realized with a sudden shock that he'd said that out loud, that he'd actually felt irritation, when Charlie was obviously struggling. The constant stream of hateful words and the ever-present flow of current were twisting his mind – it was happening again. The realization and the resulting fright made his gut flip, and cleared his head for a moment. For the first time, he could see things clearly, if only for a few seconds, and he feared he'd made a huge mistake by coming here, and bringing Charlie with him.

"Shit," he whispered, and then realized the man could hear him, could probably see his fear on the monitor. He bent his mind, trying to turn it into anger; it wasn't such a stretch, when he was feeling so frustrated with the situation. He'd better add some cross words, too, so the man didn't misconstrue his cursing. Charlie had come up to him, panting, and Don scowled, putting on a show for the tormentor in his head. The man couldn't see his face, but the camera would pick up Charlie's reaction to his expression and his sharp words. "We're never going to make the camp site at this rate."

"I'm sorry," Charlie panted. He was wheezing, and Don shifted uncomfortably at the sound, at the whiteness around his brother's lips. "I guess – I'm not – back to full – strength." The words were punctuated by gasps for air, and Charlie looked decidedly distressed at Don's words. No, 'distressed' wasn't the word for it. He appeared shocked, and more than a little afraid. Don knew that he probably looked and sounded mean, ugly. The man was playing with Don's mind - and with Charlie's too, by extension. He had to hope that Charlie understood that his sharp words were only for show. It _was_ for show, wasn't it? Swallowing a sense of spiraling panic, fighting back the fear of loss of control, Don turned on the trail and trudged onward. They were here, now. There was no turning back.

* * *

Charlie collapsed on the ground at the campsite, his eyes stinging with tears of relief. The hike had started out all right; the initial section was downhill, but the first significant climb had drained him. After that, it had gotten progressively worse; each uphill was excruciating, and by the end, even the downhill sections were taxing what was left of his strength. All he had on his back was his own backpack and his sleeping bag; Don was trundling his own gear and the small tent they'd brought, plus the cooking utensils and most of the food and water. In spite of the fact that he had a much lighter load, Charlie could barely keep up, and he could see the annoyance on Don's face. He'd been an idiot to think he could do this; he should never have agreed to come. If anything happened, he would be next to useless.

He shrugged off his backpack and rolled shakily to his feet, tottering off to the edge of the campsite to help Don gather kindling. Don shot him a glance, but said nothing, and moved off into the woods to get some bigger branches. Charlie shuffled back to the center of the campsite where there was a fire pit, and deposited his armful of kindling. A sign was posted at the edge of the site that stated when fires were allowed, and he trudged over to read it. Fires were forbidden during most of the late summer and fall months, but according to the current posting, they were allowed now; there had been enough rain recently. Casting a glance around the woods, which seemed unusually silent except for the sounds of Don quietly moving through the brush, Charlie moved to the edge of the clearing again, and began gathering another handful of sticks.

His body ached, and he longed to crawl into his sleeping bag. Now that he wasn't exerting as much energy, he was starting to feel chilled, and he had a suspicion that fatigue wasn't the entire problem. He felt like he had when he'd gotten back home from Washington, when he'd been fighting an infection. He'd finished his antibiotic two days ago, and wondered uncomfortably if it hadn't been enough to kick what had ailed him. That would be all they needed – for him to get sick. He moved stiffly back to the fire pit, and deposited his second bundle of sticks.

"That's enough," said Don, behind him, and Charlie sank gratefully onto the ground, leaning against a nearby log.

He woke an hour later with a start, wondering how he managed to fall asleep – curled on his side next to the log, no less – he didn't even remember lying down. The shadows were lengthening, and a fire crackled in the pit a few feet away. The small tent had been erected, and Don sat across from him, watching a pot of water that was propped on a rock in the pit, flames licking at its sides. Charlie shivered and sat up, scooting closer to the fire, facing Don across it. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You apparently needed it." Don's voice was dry, but Charlie could see sympathy in his eyes for just a moment, then his face closed again.

'_He has to keep his head_,' thought Charlie. '_He has to constantly govern his emotions, or the controller will see them_.' The idea made him feel a little better; Don's gruff behavior probably had a lot to do with the internal emotional front he was trying to maintain. Deep inside, however, his fear still simmered; the fear that a different Don was submerged in the body across from him, a Don filled with hatred and anger, controlled by another. Charlie pushed it out of his mind. '_Don wouldn't be here if he didn't think he could control himself,_' he thought resolutely. '_He would never have come_.'

They ate; freeze-dried mystery food reconstituted in tinny-tasting boiled water. Charlie had little appetite, but he ate anyway, to keep up his strength and for the warmth the food provided. Night descended, and the shadows and firelight played on Don's face, making it look stern and forbidding. The silence stretched; Charlie was well aware that the controller could see him, could hear their conversation, and he wished suddenly, mightily, that the situation was different. They hadn't had a chance to talk alone about everything that had happened, just the two of them, since Don had come back from Cypress Institute, and under different circumstances, this would have been the perfect opportunity to do that - to clear the air, or at least begin to, between them.

He could feel a sense of impending dread creeping over him, and the thought that this could be the last time he might speak to his brother crossed his mind. He tried to push it aside, but it hung there, refusing to leave. Oddly, the thought of dying scared him less, somehow, than leaving things unresolved between them. He couldn't bear that, and he felt a sudden need to speak, to say what was on his mind, regardless of the man listening in on their conversation. After all, the man believed that Charlie didn't know he was there. Don didn't need to respond if he felt he couldn't; he could simply listen. Charlie knew exactly where he would start – it was something that had bothered him since it happened, in New Orleans.

"I never got the chance to tell you," Charlie began, and Don jerked at the sound of his voice; then sat very still. "I wanted you to know – the thing that happened in New Orleans, well, I didn't sleep with – that woman." Charlie caught himself just in time; he didn't want give the mystery man Charlotte Sumner's name, even if it had been a cover. "I spent the night in her room, but we didn't do anything. I also didn't snort cocaine – it was a prescription drug called Adderall. We – I – used it as a cover." Don was silent, and Charlie flushed a little. "I just didn't want you to think -," he broke off, as Don rose suddenly, and paced away from him.

"I really don't care, Charlie," Don said gruffly, as he picked up another stick and threw it on the fire. He looked angry and impatient, and he picked up another stick and poked at the flames, savagely. "Why don't you get to bed, instead of sitting here yakking? Maybe if you get a little rest, you can keep up tomorrow."

Charlie stared at him, trying to squelch the surge of hurt and disappointment inside him. Granted, Don couldn't indulge in a heart-to-heart because of the camera, but he could have listened; he didn't need to snipe. The sense of hurt gave way to uncertainty, and a rising sense of unease. He rose stiffly, and grabbed his sleeping bag and crawled into the tent, without another word.

Shivering, he slid into the sleeping bag and lay on one side of the two-man tent, his eyes on the figure outside, sitting near the fire. The uneasiness rolled around inside him, making him shift uncomfortably. He couldn't understand why Don was behaving this way; obviously he needed to put on a show for the man, but the camera couldn't see his face. Surely, Don could give him some kind of sign – a wink, something, to let him know that he wasn't serious, that he wasn't really that irritated, that angry. Unless he really was…

With an abrupt jolt, it came to him. Maybe Don wasn't acting; maybe he really felt that way. Maybe the real act had been for Don to hide his feelings of hatred – not just tonight, but for the last few weeks. It was possible that he truly was still under the man's control, and had been - not just for a day, but for longer than that, perhaps ever since Washington, when the word had gotten out that Charlie was still alive.

'_It's not true_,' he told himself, resolutely. He couldn't believe that, couldn't afford to believe that, not now. Still Don's strange behavior sat in a corner of his brain, and was with him as exhaustion won, and he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Don sat by the fire and watched the flickering flames. Ordinarily, he would have found a campfire relaxing, but tonight, the flames hissed evilly, the coals burned the color of blood. He shot a glance toward the tent, where Charlie lay, probably asleep, thank God. It was so hard to be near him, and listen to the constant barrage of hateful innuendo bouncing off the confines of his skull. Today, he had felt concern for Charlie as he struggled on the trail, and tonight, when Charlie had thrown aside his own fear of being overheard and started to confide in him, Don had felt those most taboo of emotions, sympathy, and love. He couldn't afford those feelings now; couldn't let the controller know he was faking – the devices near his collarbone amplified every emotion coming out of him, bad or good.

He'd heard of actors immersing themselves in a role so completely that they lived the character's every emotion – that's what he needed to do now. He had to keep a constant current of hatred going back to the controller, and today, every time Charlie had gotten to him, every time he felt something positive, he'd responded with sarcasm or anger, trying to keep control, trying desperately to stifle any good feelings he might be sending to the man. The frightening part was, he was now willing himself to hate, strengthening the negative currents in his brain. His struggle for control was forcing him to feel what the man wanted him to feel, hatred and anger, and more than once, he'd found those feelings directed toward Charlie. He was slipping, little by little, back into his programmed state. He could only hope this went down quickly, while he still had control of his mind.

He sighed, and stood. He needed rest too; lack of sleep would only make his fight harder. He'd been putting off going to bed; the sleeping arrangements evoked memories of happier days, when he and Charlie had camped out in the backyard in a little tent much like this one. He closed his mind to the pleasant memories and instead summoned the darkest emotions he could muster, and dragged them into the tent with him.

* * *

End Chapter 52

_A/N: I feel a whump coming on, starting… next chapter._


	53. Chapter 53

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 53**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: The whumping begins – and both brothers are in for it…_

* * *

Charlie woke in the gray of dawn, stifling a groan as he tried to turn in his sleeping bag. He was stiff and aching, and he shivered in the morning dampness and pulled the bag around him. He felt awful, and was sure that the infection was making a return. He was only half-awake and still bone tired; the memories of the day before were just disturbing scattered fragments in his mind, but he could sense the presence next to him, and turned his head to look at his brother.

Don was still out, sleeping on his back, and Charlie studied his face. In sleep it was relaxed, the constant frown erased, but Charlie could still see faint lines of fatigue. The whole ordeal had to have been draining for him, and Charlie felt a sudden surge of sympathy and an impulse to throw an arm over his brother and tell him that everything would be okay. He didn't, of course. He didn't want to wake him – mostly for Don's sake, but partially for his own. When Don was awake, he looked like another person – someone who Charlie feared. Asleep, he was his brother again, and for a little while, Charlie could pretend things were normal again. He was too tired to think otherwise, too tired to be frightened, wary, on edge - so tired…

His eyes drifted shut again, his brother's face the last image in them before they closed.

* * *

Sunshine filtered through the fabric of the tent, and the chirp of a bird brought Don back to consciousness. It was followed immediately by memory of the day before, of the situation they were in, and his eyes flew open with a start. He propped himself up on his elbow and took a quick look through the flap of the tent, assuring himself that all was quiet outside. Early morning sun filtered through pines and cast blue shadows on their campground; blue interspersed with dappled gold where the sun hit the ground. He turned his head to look at Charlie.

His brother was lying on his side, facing him, still sound asleep, and his appearance struck Don suddenly. Perhaps it was the fact that Charlie was sleeping and he could really study him; or perhaps it was because he was still half-asleep himself and his mind was not yet consumed by the constant battle against the current in his head, but he felt as though he was really seeing his brother for the first time in days, undistracted. His first thought was to wonder when Charlie had gotten so thin. Charlie's dark, intense eyes usually consumed a person's attention, and now that they were closed, Don focused on the rest of his face, which was drawn and pale, shadowed with a day's worth of stubble. His curly hair hadn't seen a trim in weeks, and somehow the length made Charlie's face look even thinner – thin enough to match the bony wrist that lay next to the sleeping bag. That arm was stretched toward Don, almost as though Charlie had been reaching out to him in his sleep.

Charlie looked so tired, and almost a bit feverish, that for an unguarded moment Don felt a rush of protectiveness. It had been insane to bring him out here, to subject him to the physical rigors of the trip and mind-fraying fear that Don saw in his face every time he looked at him. Just as quickly came a rush of fury at the man who had put them in the situation; and Don let it come, let the anger take him. He couldn't afford feelings of protectiveness, sympathy and love. He'd allowed it for a brief moment, gave himself a tiny opportunity to feel human again, just to know he could. Now, the day was here, and he had to shut that down and channel his emotions back to the dark side, turn himself back to something inhuman. It wasn't hard, he realized with a flicker of despair, as Charlie seemed to change right before his eyes into a weak, lazy sloth – something to be despised.

"Get up," he commanded roughly, as he climbed out of the tent. "We need to hit the trail."

* * *

J. Scott Marsh frowned as he watched the flickering bars on the vest monitor. He'd been up for an hour, watching the bars fluctuate while Don slept. The camera now told him that Don was awake; it shifted as Don moved, propping himself on an elbow. What disturbed Marsh was the brief surge of positive emotions as Don first looked at his brother; a short but sizeable increase in the bar over 'love,' before a rush of hatred came and blotted it out, followed shortly afterward by disgust and impatience. Those last feelings were as they should have been, but the 'love' reading wasn't, and Marsh had noticed other fluctuations the previous day; short spurts of positive emotions mixed with the bad. Don Eppes was unstable, it was clear. Perhaps not so unstable that hatred would not win out when the time came, but Marsh would have to be prepared to intervene if Don balked and refused to carry out his commands.

He stood and trained his binoculars on the Eppes camp down the valley from Marsh's ridge-top post. They were both moving now, packing up; Charlie was walking slowly, stiffly. Marsh swung his field glasses along the trail behind them, looking for any signs that anyone was following them, and saw none. Then he turned, and climbed a little higher on the ridge and looked west, toward the ocean.

He was at a high point on the trail. Ridges stretched away west toward the sea, but they were all slightly lower than the one he was on, and beyond the next one, he could see a dark smudge. The winds had changed, and the fog bank that had been sitting off the coast was finally moving, rolling inland. Marsh was no weather forecaster, but earlier he'd counted the ridges between him and the cloud on the horizon, and he realized there were now at least two less in the hour since he'd been sitting there. There was now only one ridgeline between him and the grayness. At that rate, and considering the fact that they would be hiking toward the fog, Marsh figured that it would envelop them within an hour. The reduced visibility would allow him to get closer to them, so he could step in if he had to when he gave Don the command.

* * *

"They're moving," said Ian, as he looked through his binoculars at the Eppes brothers, who had just broken camp and were setting out on the trail.

Colby and David each watched their respective man silently for a moment with their own field glasses, Colby noting that Charlie had put on a different jacket. Different pants, too, he realized with a frown. Charlie had changed from jeans into jogging pants, and Colby hoped he'd remembered to transfer the GPS tracker from his jeans pocket to the clothes he was wearing now. '_Of course, he still has it with him, even if he didn't transfer it,_' he reminded himself. '_His jeans and the tracker would be in his backpack._'He would have liked to talk to Charlie, to remind him - the situation was yet another reminder of their forced silence, of the fact that they couldn't communicate.

Ian frowned, and pulled out his radio, connecting with the command post. "Bill – Ian here. They're up, and we're moving. You picking up their GPS trackers – and ours?"

Twelve miles to the southeast, Bill Masters glanced at the screen set up on a table under the military grade open-air canvas shelter, as Rogan peered over his shoulder and Wilkes listened in, Styrofoam coffee cup in hand. "Yes. Their trackers are both moving; yours are showing up, but stationary."

"Okay," said Ian. "Listen, do you guys have a weather report? I see gray on the horizon – are we supposed to get rain today?"

Masters, Rogan, and Wilkes all looked at the sunshine outside the canvas overhang, and then at each other, blankly. "Hold on a minute," said Rogan. "I can pull it up on my Blackberry."

He searched a weather site, which gave him a brief report. "No chance of precipitation, it says," he recited with shrug. "Looks like pretty much the same forecast as yesterday."

Bill Masters spoke into the radio. "Brian says they're predicting the same weather as yesterday. Maybe it's just morning mist on the hills."

Ian frowned again, and looked back through his binoculars. There appeared to be a definite line between the advancing cloud and the ridges between them. '_Maybe it's just a coastal phenomenon. It'll probably burn off_,' he thought to himself, and then his attention was captured by movement on the ridge across the valley. He swung his glasses there quickly, but whatever he had seen was gone. "Okay, Roger that," he said, and clicked the radio off. He spoke to David and Colby, while still scanning the ridge. "I just saw movement," he said, "on the facing ridge, in the direction that Don and Charlie are headed. Not sure what it was; it's gone now."

David squinted toward the opposite ridge. "If it _is_ our man, he's ahead of them on the trail. They're between him and us."

Ian scanned the ridgeline again, and trailed his glasses down the slope. "It might just have been a deer. I didn't get a good look. It could have either gone over the top of the ridge away from them, or come down the east slope into the cover of the trees."

Colby had his glasses up. "If it came down the slope, it was headed towards them, and us."

Ian pulled his glasses down. "We'd better get moving, but we need to stay back. If it's our man and he's circling back behind them, we don't want to run into him."

"This is when it would be nice to be able to contact them," said Colby, "and give them a heads up. That camera Don's wearing really buggers things up."

* * *

The voice started as soon as they hit the trail. Don could hear it in his head; it was relentless, maddening. '_Look at him. He's pathetic. He can barely make it up the hill. Soon you'll be far enough in. You can lure him off the trail and finish him, finally rid the world of his presence. He's a danger to our country, and has no redeeming personal qualities – he's egotistical, selfish, a lying traitor. He'd kill you at the drop of a hat if he thought that you knew what he'd done. Better for you to take care of him first…'_

The voice went on, but the subject matter began to change. Painful moments from their past began to surface, times they'd argued; times he'd been furious with Charlie. Don could no longer tell which thoughts were his, and which were the controller's – how could this man possibly know about their past? Some of the thoughts had to be his own, he thought in despair, some of the rage that was beginning to smolder inside him had to be coming from him. As he got to the top of the next ridge, which looked over a small hollow, the voice suddenly stopped its litany of hate, and said, '_Look at the next little hollow, below you. Look at the next ridge, and the fog creeping over it. Somewhere along that section of trail, find a place to stop for a break. You'll want to spend a little time in the hollow, let the fog come in. Where will you go?'_

Don swallowed and looked back down the trail. Charlie was several yards back; he seemed to be moving a little more quickly this morning after his rest, but Don still outpaced him, easily. The man was working up to something, and he wanted an answer. Don shot a glance nervously back up the trail past Charlie, hoping to catch a glimpse of Edgerton and the team, but saw nothing. He had to play along, had to buy time until he figured out where the man was. Doing what the man said - stopping and waiting - would also give Edgerton and the team a chance to get closer. He turned back to look into the hollow, and spoke into the mike in his jacket lapel. "There's a big dead pine sticking out, about halfway up the slope to the next ridge," he said. "We'll stop there."

* * *

Charlie paused for a moment to catch his breath and looked up the trail at Don, standing where the trail crested the ridge. '_Not too much farther_,' he told himself, and then caught his breath. He could see Don in quarter profile, much of his face was turned away, but Charlie was sure. Don was speaking; Charlie could see the motion of his jaw, and then Don's hand came up, nudging his lapel upward, closer to his face. There was no doubt; Don was speaking into the mike attached to the camera – talking to the man on the other end. Charlie's heart flip-flopped, and he ducked his head just in time as Don turned to look back at him. That morning, in the light of day, he'd talked himself out of his suspicions – the fear that perhaps Don hadn't been truthful with them and had been under the control of the unknown man all along. Those suspicions came roaring back now, with a vengeance. The way Don turned away to talk and his guilty backward look afterward spoke of something furtive, something that Don didn't want him to see.

He closed his eyes, trying to fight down the panic rising inside of him, and was faced with a vision – Don's face, peering at him through the glass of the conference room at the FBI offices. He knew he was perilously close to experiencing a flashback. He wrestled the vision back down and opened his eyes, putting one foot in front of the other on the trail, numb with fear. He had to play along – the man was still nowhere in sight. He had to keep up with the charade until the man was close enough for Ian, Colby, and David to apprehend him. He couldn't blow it now; they were so close. Keep walking, keep pretending, keep the faith that Don knew what he was doing…

* * *

The fog crept towards them as they trudged along, and Don headed for the gray cloud like a zombie, his mind buzzing. Or rather, the trail headed toward it; they really had no choice of direction. He was so consumed with handling the voice in his head that he didn't realize how thick the fog was until they started up the following slope. They were in a small hollow – not a big sweeping valley like the one they had just come out of, and the next ridge was much closer. Sooner than Don expected, they were approaching the pine he'd picked out, and his stomach lurched with the sudden realization that the man was undoubtedly close by. He cast surreptitious glances around them, trying to pick him out, and wondered again how far behind them the surveillance team was. If they didn't come over the ridge behind them soon, they would lose them in the fog.

Charlie was breathing heavily again, and as they reached the pine, Don said, "Let's stop here for a minute."

Charlie didn't even look at him; he nodded but kept his head down and headed past him for a nearby boulder in the small clearing, pulling off his backpack and setting it next to the rock. Don turned away to look around them; he could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck. Someone was out there in the mist… Tendrils of fog were trailing about them now; he could still see, but patches of forest were beginning to be obscured. Don could feel the reassuring solidness of the gun inside his jacket, but if the man came at them suddenly out of the fog, it might not be effective – he might not get a chance to pull it and aim. It would be best to have some backup, he thought, and pulled his own backpack off, set it on the ground, and unzipped it. He'd better make sure he had access to that knife…

'_Where are you?_' The voice was in his head again, and Don feverishly rummaged through his backpack feeling as though any second the man would charge out at them from the brush. There – he found it.

He straightened, examining the knife in its sheath, and spoke quietly into his lapel. "We're here," he said, his gut tightening with apprehension, "where I told you we'd be."

He could hear Charlie shuffling around behind him, but he kept his gaze on the woods around them, turning slowly, until suddenly the sound of running feet registered on his consciousness. He whirled around to see Charlie, running full tilt up the trail, faster than Don would have imagined he could move. His brother hadn't simply been shuffling around the clearing, he taken off in full flight. "Charlie!" he yelled, as fear asserted itself, and he twisted around, taking a moment to peer at the woods around him, trying to see what had driven his brother into panicked flight, scanning, searching, still looking, even as his feet started to move, and he finally took off after Charlie.

He still had the knife in its sheath in his hand as he sprinted up the trail after his brother, and it occurred to him suddenly why Charlie had fled. It hadn't been the sight of someone lurking in the brush – it had been _him_ – standing there with a knife, and murmuring to the man who was stalking them through the mike in his jacket. It had to have seemed horribly suspicious, incriminating. No wonder Charlie had taken off. They were only yards from the top of the ridge, and he could see Charlie nearing it, heading over the top, already partially obscured by the growing fog. Don was gaining, but he wasn't close enough – not with the reduced visibility.

"Shit!" he swore aloud as fear coursed through him, and he screamed at his brother. "Charlie! Stop!"

* * *

Ian, Colby, and David were nearing the top of the trail in the larger valley that the Eppes brothers had just left, moving as quickly as they dared. It had become apparent that what had appeared to be coastal mist was a heavy bank of fog, moving inland, and they knew they had to close the distance between themselves and Don and Charlie, or risk losing sight of them. As they neared the top of the ridge, Ian's radio buzzed. He stopped short to answer it, and Colby and David stopped with him, casting impatient searching glances around them as Bill Masters' excited voice poured in a tinny stream from the radio. "Don is on the move, fast, about two klicks from your position! Do you have a visual?"

Ian shot a sharp glance at the two agents, and they began to run up the trail toward the top of the ridge. "Negative!" he shot back. "We're cresting the ridge they just went over. Fog is moving in here; we closed the distance between us. We're not too far behind them, but the visibility is getting bad. You said only Don is on the move?"

"Yes – Charlie is showing stationary, between you and Don, about a klick and a half from you, right off the trail."

"Roger that," panted Ian, and signed off, running hard up the trail after Colby and David. The three of them bounded to a stop at the top of the ridge, and looked across the small hollow. "There!" exclaimed David, pointing at the shadowy figure disappearing into the fog at the top of the next hill. "That looks like Don!"

They charged after him in full pursuit, slowing as they reached what they figured to be Charlie's position, according to Masters. There was no Charlie, but Colby spotted his backpack against the rock. "Aw, shit!" he groaned. "That's Charlie's pack – the GPS chip must still be in it!"

"Damn it! He's running too!" Ian took off up the path, now shrouded in gray, with Colby and David after him. '_Too far_,' thought Ian, '_they're too far ahead in this fog_.'

* * *

Charlie tore blindly up the trail, gasping from a combination of exertion and mindless fear. The image of his brother standing there with the knife and coldly telling his controller their position had stunned him. Fear hit, an icy shot; then white-hot panic surged through him, driving him to his feet, adrenaline giving his legs speed that would have seemed impossible moments ago. He shot up the trail but in his mind he was home at the Craftsman, and Don was chasing him up the stairs. Monster, with a knife. Charlie flew over the top of the hill and missed the turn in the trail, but kept going through the brush, heedless of the trees, the undergrowth, the branches that tore at his body like grasping hands. Terror had short-circuited his brain; he could think of nothing other than escape.

He could hear Don swearing, yelling at him to stop. The sound faded, but still Charlie plunged onward, across a long slope, then down, down, until he hit bottom, splashing and stumbling across a shallow creek. In and out of layers of mist, sometimes clear, sometimes so thick he could barely see two yards in front of him.

The hole in the creek bank might have been made by an animal, or perhaps was just the result of water erosion when the small stream flooded. It was a little less than a foot in diameter, and went straight down for about eighteen inches before it turned. It was nearly invisible in the fog, and as Charlie crossed the stream and bounded across the other bank his lower left leg went in the hole neatly and stayed there, as his body catapulted over it. There was a sickening snap, and he jolted to a stop in a sea of agony, lying there, not breathing, not _existing_, he was nothing any longer – nothing but all-consuming pain.

* * *

End Chapter 53

_A/N: Oh, I'm just getting started here… _


	54. Chapter 54

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 54**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Many humble thanks for the reviews. Okay, okay, you've talked me into another one. :) I don't think you'll like the cliffie at the end of this one any better, though…_

……………………………………………………………

J. Scott Marsh crouched in the brush as the sound of feet grating on the rock of the trail met his ears. At roughly the same time he heard Don shout through his earpiece, and Marsh looked down at the video monitor to see a section of trail bounding crazily up and down – Don Eppes was running hard up the trail toward the top of the ridge – the ridge that separated Marsh from the brothers. He was shouting Charlie's name, and just then, Marsh looked up as the professor burst over the top of the hill. He was running flat out and missed the sharp left turn in the trail, instead heading straight ahead into the trees and passing within yards of Marsh's hiding place. Marsh paused, frozen for a moment, thinking fast. Dr. Eppes had obviously been spooked by something – perhaps he'd overhead their conversation, and was on the run from his brother. It took him only a moment to decide that his only recourse now was to follow the professor, to make sure they didn't lose him.

He paused just an instant longer, waiting to see if Don Eppes would also come sprinting past him – if he did, Marsh would follow them both. He had a ski mask in his pocket – extra insurance in case he needed to avoid the chance glimpse by anyone who might identify him, and he took the opportunity to pull it on. As he did so, Don flew over the top of the ridge, but his quick reactions identified the turn in the trail in time and he veered sharply left, pounding on down the trail away from Marsh, away from his brother, his footsteps fading in the distance. Marsh wasted no time – the professor was already out of sight in the mist, and he took off down the hill through the trees after him, trying to follow the same line of travel.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Fear probed through the pain, and Charlie knew he had to move. He somehow backed up onto his hands and his right knee, his body shaking with pain, and managed to pull his left leg out carefully of the hole. The resulting agony wrenched a guttural cry from him, and as soon as his leg was free, he collapsed again on his right side. His left foot was hanging at a strange angle, and he realized dimly through his anguish that walking was out of the question. His ears were roaring and his head was swimming; he was in danger of passing out, but he knew he had to somehow find a hiding place. The bank he was on was rocky and relatively open, but there were some low-hanging pine branches a few yards away. If he could get there, he could hide until Ian, Colby, and David could get to him.

He realized that he'd run the wrong direction. Ian had told him if he needed them he should run back along the trail towards them, but that hadn't been an option. Don had been behind him, near the trail, blocking the way. He only hoped that they were close behind, and of course, they could always track his position… "Oh, God."

It wasn't until then that it occurred to him that they had no way to find him – in his panic, he'd left his backpack behind, and the GPS tracking device with it. For a moment, he was paralyzed by pain and despair, and blackness crept around the edges of his vision. He shook it off, forcing himself to focus. No matter what, if he was to have a chance, he still needed to conceal himself. He reached his arms across the rocky ground, and trembling with pain and fatigue, began to pull himself along it toward the pines.

The movement brought tears of pain to his eyes, and they ran down his cheeks as he stopped, gasping. He was propped on his elbows, head drooping, when a voice said, "Hello, professor."

He jerked his head up, his elbow gave way and he rolled onto his back, biting back a groan of pain. He was staring up at a tall man holding a pistol, who was wearing a dark green ski mask, gloves, and what appeared to be a tan fishing vest. The man crouched beside him and pulled the mask up to reveal his chiseled, good-looking features, and a jolt of recognition shot through Charlie. It was the man from Montreaux's estate – the man that he had seen, and had tried for weeks to identify. The fact that he shown himself was ominous; he apparently had no intention of letting Charlie live to tell others what he'd seen. Charlie held himself rigidly, acutely aware of the gun that was pointed at his chest, an almost physical presence in itself - menacing, a deliverer of death.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don tore up the incline and over the top of the ridge, hitting a dense patch of fog and nearly missing the sharp left turn in the trail. This section of trail was fairly level, and ran along the left side of what looked like another sizable valley. It was hard to tell he was even in a valley at first, but as he ran, he could see that some patches of woods were clear enough to tell that the ground sloped away to his right for a good distance before getting lost in the thick fog far at the bottom. To his left, the rest of the hill rose steeply overhead to another ridge. This section of trail was a series of switchbacks; sharp turns back and forth through dense trees, and he ran for a few minutes, expecting to see Charlie around each turn.

He finally stopped, panting; sweat dripping down his face and neck and mingling with the cool, gathering mist, and faced the awful truth – he'd lost him. Charlie could not possibly be ahead of him; he would have caught him by now. He had to have turned off the trail, and Don's heart sank. Charlie was out there alone, with a killer in the vicinity. His chances of finding his brother in the growing fog were slim, but still panic-driven, Don started back along the trail the way he had come. There were still a few mist-free sections here and there on this slope and the slope across the valley, and his eyes sought them out desperately as he strode back along the trail. Maybe if he looked down into the valley, he would see Charlie crossing one of those spaces. He'd gone only a few feet, when the voice in his head spoke. '_Your brother is down the hill, near the creek. Come down the hill and follow the creek upstream – you will find him_.'

He froze; his heart hammering. His worst fear had been realized – the man who had been stalking them had found Charlie first. He realized he was still clutching the knife, and bent and lifted his pant leg quickly, strapping the sheath to his leg. Then he turned, at first moving slowly, then faster with more purpose, as he plunged off the trail into the woods, making his way down the long slope toward the thicker mist at the bottom. He was probably walking into a trap, but he had no choice.

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J. Scott Marsh squatted and surveyed the prone man in front of him, taking in the strange angle of his foot and his obvious pain. The professor had a badly broken leg, and it prompted another thought. The murder would look more believable if Charlie Eppes bore some bruises, as if from an attack by a man gone mad – as they would ultimately believe Don Eppes to be. Marsh wanted it to appear as if Don had cracked under the strain and had a relapse, then viciously attacked and killed his brother and finally shot himself. He had the feeling that if he could push Don Eppes to kill Charlie, then he had a good chance of talking him into suicide. If not, he would have to manage Don's death himself. His eyes roved over Charlie's body once more, then he moved his gun to his left hand and without warning, smashed his gloved right fist into the professor's left cheekbone. The professor's head jerked up and back; and his eyes rolled back in his head. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to lose consciousness but then his eyelids fluttered, and his eyes stayed open. He looked dazed, though, and Marsh stood and watched him for a moment, then looked around for a suitable piece of wood.

He found one under a nearby stand of pine, a thick branch long ago stripped of bark and bleached to a silver color, about the size and hardness of a baseball bat. It was a bit lighter than a bat, but still heavy enough to produce bruises. Marsh walked back over to the professor with the gun in his right hand and swinging the club in his left, a cold, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "You've been quite the annoyance, professor. We thought you were gone, and then you turned up again, like a bad penny." He swung the piece of wood at Charlie's torso, hard, and the professor involuntarily raised his arm to ward off the blow. It connected with his shoulder with a nasty smack, and Charlie choked back a strangled cry of pain. Marsh gave a slight nod of approval. A broken leg, a bruise on the cheekbone, one on the shoulder –

He broke off his mental inventory as motion caught his eye. The sound of the creek muffled the footsteps, but through a rift in the mist he'd gotten a glimpse of a figure approaching, walking along on the opposite bank, still well upstream. Don Eppes. He'd gotten there faster than Marsh had expected, but fortunately Eppes hadn't seen him yet. Quickly, Marsh headed for the pines; then paused. There was a huge tree only a few feet from the professor that would provide better cover, and Marsh slipped behind it and pulled down his ski mask, his finger on the trigger.

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Don moved carefully along the stream, eyes roving from side to side. This section of the valley still had only patches of fog and was relatively clear, but thick clouds rose up the slopes, surrounding them, obscuring the view from the trail above except for an open section near the ridge top. He glanced at a clearing to his left across the stream, which was partially obscured by brush from his upstream angle. He had nearly walked past it before he glanced that way again. Looking back at it from downstream there was an opening in the brush, and he got a full view of the rocky clearing and the prone figure on the ground.

His first thought was that Charlie was dead, and for a moment, time stood still. He stopped short, just staring at his brother across the shallow rushing stream, the sound of it filling his head. Then he was moving, running, stumbling across the stream, very nearly stepping in the same hole that Charlie had, before a voice brought him up short. A man in a ski mask stepped out from behind a tree, partially showing himself and his gun, which was pointed at Charlie's head; and Don froze.

"Well, Don," the man said pleasantly, "I see you've come to finish him off." It was then that Don looked down and saw that Charlie's eyes were open; he was alive, but lying rigidly, trembling as if in pain. His left cheek was an angry red with a small blue center; the kind of nasty, deep bruise that would turn black later. That wasn't the source of the intense pain however; Don stomach lurched with nausea as he got a glimpse of Charlie's left leg, the limp foot hanging from a shin twisted at an impossible angle. Broken – and it looked bad. Don swallowed, his head buzzing from the current, trying to get a grip on the situation. His hand itched to pull his gun from its shoulder holster, but the man was watching every move, every expression; and he was protected, half-hidden by the trunk of the tree. Don needed to play along until he could find an opportunity to pull his gun and get off a good shot.

He pretended to look around them, ignoring the man and his gun. The buzzing sensation had increased, the effects ramped up by the rush of emotions and adrenaline, and he tried to fight it down, tried to maintain control. "Are you sure we're alone?" he asked, hoping to God that the answer to his own question was 'no,' praying that Ian, Colby, or David were near.

Don turned back to look at the man and caught him shrewdly appraising him, and at his feet, he could see Charlie's devastated, hopeless expression. The look of pain on his face had intensified, and Don knew that Charlie had been desperately holding onto the possibility that Don was still on his side, and he'd just dashed those hopes. The expression in his eyes was almost more than Don could bear, and he was thankful that the man was too busy to be looking at the monitor, because right now his emotions would surely give him away. _'You know I'm kidding, Charlie, please, know I'm just playing along.' _He said it silently, with the fervor of a prayer, and then the man abruptly tossed him something.

Don caught it automatically, and he could see a flicker of satisfaction in the man's eyes. It was a club-sized piece of bleached wood, and as Don looked at it the man said, "Go ahead, hit him. I know you want to."

Don stared at the wood blankly, his stomach and mind churning together in a sickening senseless morass. The bastard wanted him to hit Charlie, to club him while he lay helpless on the ground. The man edged closer – still not quite out from behind the tree trunk, but near enough for an easy shot - the barrel of his gun trained on Charlie's head, his eyes watchful. He was testing him, Don realized, and he straightened and stepped over Charlie's prone body, and then turned to look down at his brother, hefting the branch. He needed the man to relax his guard, just for a second or two... Charlie's eyes held his, tortured, bright with unshed tears of pain and betrayal, and Don lifted the club. His face was impassive, but his eyes implored, '_Don't move, Charlie_, _don't move…_'

He brought the club down hard across Charlie's body, pretending to hit his right hip, but making sure that the head of the branch hit the ground next to Charlie's body, letting the ground absorb the brunt of the blow. Still, he caught a bit of Charlie's hipbone and Don could see him flinch. Charlie shut his eyes tightly, as if he couldn't bear to see what was coming, and at that moment, Don felt something snap inside his head. The constant barrage of current, the unbearable tension, the ugly scene, the rush of emotion and adrenaline had finally broken through his mental defenses, and he could feel the rage mushrooming inside, taking over…

He was seized with an almost irresistible urge to act, to lift the club again and smash it into the body at his feet, to beat the figure beneath him into a bloody pulp, and for a moment he teetered there on the edge of the abyss, fighting for their lives in the battleground of his mind. He clenched the club, his knuckles white as his brain raced, and as he looked down at Charlie lying helplessly on the ground he was seized with the vision of his brother as a child, in the garage, backing into a corner, a plea in his dark eyes. It was the recurring dream he'd had when he'd been programmed, something that had never even happened, an image produced by his tortured mind, but the image was powerful – a visual rendering of his brain's final attempt to reassert itself, and somehow, it was enough. It broke the haze of rage obscuring his reason, and at least for that brief moment, the battle was won; Don could feel the hatred receding as he regained control.

He looked at the club and could feel bile rising in his throat, and without looking at the man, tossed the branch to the ground. It landed between them, near the man's feet. Don was breathing heavily, the sickening scene and the emotion that went with it had shot his adrenaline level through the roof, and he was sure he looked somewhat deranged. He needed an excuse to get to his gun – he still had to play along. He shot a sideways glance at the man, and said, in a thick voice, "Screw this. Let's just kill the little bastard."

He could see the man's eyes framed in the holes of the ski mask; and the intensity in them was replaced by a thoughtful look. Don took a chance and reached inside his jacket with his right hand as the man carefully bent and retrieved the club, his eyes still on Don and his gun still on Charlie. Just as Don pulled out the Beretta, the man tossed the piece of wood back at him, towards his right side, and Don quickly transferred the gun to his left hand so he could catch the club. Now the gun was out but in the wrong hand, and the man stepped back behind the protection of the tree trunk, his gun still trained at Charlie's head.

"Hit him again."

Don was still in a situation where he had to make some kind of move to get a shot off, and furthermore, he had to shift his position to get a good one. He played for time, moving slowly, casually, swinging the club, shifting around to Charlie's feet so he could get a better angle on the man behind the tree; then he deftly switched hands, so that the gun was in his right and the club in his left. He immediately pointed the gun at Charlie, trying to keep the man off guard until he could get a clear shot. He could see Charlie's chest heaving with emotion and pain, but the sound of his breathing was drowned out by the noise of the nearby creek.

He fumbled for something to say that would explain why he wasn't either hitting or shooting, and directed the words at Charlie, trying to sound as nasty as he could. "You don't deserve to live, you little traitor, after what you've done." '_Shift a little more left, step back so you can bring up the gun…,_'

"You're nothing but scum. So what do you think, Charlie? Should I shoot, or should I let you suffer a little longer?" '_God, Charlie looks bad, looks like he's going into shock…you know I don't mean that, buddy, you gotta know… Back another step, flatten the angle of your arm by backing away – then it won't be such a large movement to bring it up and hit the man – damn, if he'd only step out from behind that tree a little more…_'

………………………………………………………………

Ian, Colby, and David shot over the top of the ridge and flew down the trail for several yards before Ian brought them to an abrupt halt. "We're not going to catch them," he panted. "They could be anywhere in these woods. We need to go back up on the ridge while there are still some patches of visibility and try to get a line of sight." He sprinted back up the way they had come, David and Colby behind him, and at the top of the trail they stopped. Ahead, they looked back down into the little hollow of out which they had just come, and to their left, a rocky outcropping stretched, the highest viewpoint over the valley that they had just reached. Without a word, Ian led the way across the rocks to the precipice and they took positions on the edge. Colby and David pulled out their binoculars, but Ian pulled his rifle from its case and assembled it quickly, expertly, and then used the scope as a magnifier, looking through at the sections of woods that weren't yet obscured by the fog.

It wasn't the experienced tracker or the military veteran who spied them first – it was the city boy, David Sinclair. "There they are!" he exclaimed, as he trained his binoculars down into the heart of the valley. "One o'clock -," he broke off abruptly, still staring through the binoculars, and Colby caught a look of disbelief on his face.

Colby instantly trained his own field glasses on the area, scanning quickly until he saw them, and his heart nearly stopped. "Charlie's down," he said, his voice cracking.

Ian shot both of them a quick perturbed glance as he adjusted his scope then put it to his eye again, and as he found the Eppes men, he saw the reason for Sinclair and Granger's distress. Charlie was down, and Don Eppes was standing over him, pointing a handgun at his chest. There was someone else, Ian realized. "There's another man to Don's right – he's partially hidden by that big tree, but he's got a gun on Charlie, too." For a split second they sat there in stunned disbelief, and then Ian spoke again, his face grim. "Looks like Don lied to us – he must have been under the man's control, maybe for some time now."

"But how?" argued Colby. "Those devices they put in were supposed to keep that from happening."

"Maybe they are," said David, desperation in his voice. "Maybe he's just playing along."

"Or maybe Dr. Janovic lied to us to save his hide and he never put the devices in," retorted Ian. His eyes narrowed, and he pressed his face closer to the stock of the rifle. Don was raising his gun, leveling his arm, slowly moving the gun up from Charlie's midsection toward his head, as if to prepare for an executioner's shot. "We don't have a choice; I need to take him out. Get on the radio; tell Masters to get a team out and cordon off a radius around Don's GPS - the other man's probably going to run as soon as I take this shot. Tell Masters to get a medical evac going, too, as close as they can get to this area."

He shook his head impatiently and jockeyed a little for position; there were branches in the way, and swathes of mist moving across his field of vision, and he didn't have the best view. Don had stopped moving, however, and obviously had gotten himself in a position to take the shot, and there was no more time. Ian Edgerton put Don Eppes in his crosshairs, and pulled the trigger.

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End Chapter 54


	55. Chapter 55

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 55**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

* * *

Don finally had maneuvered his way around to the far side of Charlie's legs, and had as clear a view as he was going to get of the man behind the tree. Straightening his arm, he aimed the gun at a position just above Charlie's head to shorten the movement he would need to make when he took his shot. He took a quick glance at Charlie, who had turned his face away and closed his eyes, silent tears running from them. The sight nearly broke Don's heart, but it was closely followed by a surge of hatred. The current was still buzzing in his brain, trying to provoke that hatred, and Don let it come, because it would make that much easier to kill the bastard who had started all of this…

In one smooth motion he brought the gun up, and as he did so he felt a fierce blow hit his upper arm a few inches above the elbow, and he jerked involuntarily just as he pulled the trigger. At nearly the same time, the man near the tree reacted to Don's movement, attempting to pull back out of range and twisting as Don's bullet entered his shoulder, trying to get off his own shot. The three shots were nearly simultaneous – the distant pop of Ian's rifle was masked by the quick crack-crack of the handguns. Don staggered as the searing bolt of fire tore through his arm, nearly going to his knees, but he didn't have time to register the pain – the man was running. He somehow managed to keep a grip on his gun and plunged into the tree line, tearing after the man, who had already disappeared into the fog.

He raced after him, rage burning hot in his throat, drowning out the pain in his arm. After a few hundred yards of pursuit through the mist, however, the pain finally asserted itself, and brought him back to reality. Charlie – Charlie was a sitting duck, lying there helpless in the clearing. In the fog, the man could double back around and go for him, head back to finish the job. That thought made Don whirl on his heels and sprint back in the other direction. He stopped almost as suddenly as a thought occurred to him - he had to get rid of the camera. He stripped off his jacket, wadded it in a ball so the camera eye was covered, and stuck it in a clump of brush. He paused for just a moment to take inventory of the wound in his arm. It was a nasty gash; and was bleeding freely. It needed to be wrapped, but he had nothing with which to wrap it, and besides there was no time. He dashed off back through the trees toward his brother.

* * *

The rifle cracked and Ian swore, then he quickly put his head down for another shot, but the mystery man had veered off into the brush with Don behind him. He rose quickly, and David and Colby looked up at him miserably; neither of them could bear to see the results of his shot, and they'd lowered their binoculars. "I missed him – he moved at the last minute," Ian said, ignoring the mingled look of apprehension and relief on the other agents' faces. Relief for Don; apprehension for Charlie. "Don and the man both took off running – we need to try to get down to Charlie before they decide to come back." As he spoke, they shouldered their packs and Ian slung his rifle over his shoulder, and they clambered as quickly as they dared back over the rocks of the outcropping, toward the trail.

* * *

Don charged back into the clearing, relieved beyond measure to see that Charlie was still conscious, still alive. He came to a stop over him, looking around quickly to make sure they were alone. The fog was rolling through the area in earnest now, big thick gray wet clouds. He looked down at Charlie, only to see his brother turn agonized eyes away from him, averting his face. He was trembling, his cheeks wet with tears of pain and betrayal. "J-just _do it_," he whispered, and closed his eyes, shaking.

Don realized belatedly that he was still holding his pistol, standing over him – Charlie thought he was going to _shoot_ him, for God's sake – he was lying there, helplessly waiting for the shot that would end his life. The realization stunned Don for a moment; then he came to his senses, hurriedly holstered his gun and bent down over his brother, his hands gently pushing aside fog-drenched curls and cupping Charlie's face. "Charlie – God, Charlie, no. I'm not going to shoot you. Charlie, Charlie, look at me."

He gently turned Charlie's face up toward him, and the dark eyes opened. Charlie's face was still so twisted with pain and fear, Don couldn't tell if his words had registered or not. He moved back just a little to examine him, trying to figure out the best way to move him – he had to move him, had to hide him somewhere while he went back after the man. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his arm under the sleeve of the black nylon-spandex hiking shirt he wore – that sleeve was wet with blood. He ignored it; he needed to get Charlie some place safe, and he looked back down at him, trying to figure out how to lift him, the best way to carry him. He had no idea of the scope of his injuries; he couldn't simply fling him over his shoulder.

"This is going to hurt, Charlie," he said softly. "I'm so sorry, but I have to move you somewhere safer."

Charlie's arm came up as Don eased his arms under him, and for a moment, he thought Charlie was going to try to push him away, but instead, his brother reached out and grabbed at his shirt for support as Don strained to lift him as gently as he could. Charlie cried out in agony as his foot left the ground; Don could see it hanging there like something lifeless as he slowly turned with Charlie's body cradled against his chest. Don could feel wetness where his arm supported Charlie's hip, but he knew it was the wetness of his own sleeve, soaked with blood.

Charlie's eyes were closed, but he was still clinging to consciousness. His hand was wrapped in the front of Don's shirt, and the trusting gesture, after all that Charlie had been through, after what Don had made him think, made Don's eyes sting. Or maybe it wasn't trusting; maybe it was simply a desperate effort to support himself, to hold himself in a more comfortable position. Maybe Charlie was allowing himself to be carried because he had no choice; he couldn't struggle with his injuries. Maybe Charlie _didn't_ trust him – maybe he would never trust him again.

Grunting with the effort, Don stepped across the rocky clearing, wading carefully through the shallow creek and trying to stay to rocky ground on the other side to conceal his tracks, walking west along the creek on a small trail, probably used by fishermen. He would get Charlie as far as he could, and headed in the direction of the main trail to get him that much closer to eventual rescue.

He trudged until he got to a rocky overhang, downstream and just off the small trail; it wasn't too far from the clearing, but in the fog it was far enough – and he was spent. God knew, Charlie was small and slight in ordinarily times, and was now bordering on gaunt, but cradling him in his arms was difficult especially with Don's own wound, and Don was afraid to carry him any other way, considering Charlie's injuries. The overhang was recessed into the steep slope – the south side of the valley, and fronted by bushes. Charlie would be hidden by anyone passing on the trail.

Charlie groaned in pain as Don slowly set him down in the dimness under the huge rock, shifting fitfully, and Don realized with a nasty jolt that his brother's leg was twisted; the foot turned at a sharp angle from the leg. He gently eased it back into a more normal position; then anxiously looked at Charlie's face. Charlie's eyes were glazed and his lids were fluttering, and Don could feel a lump forming in his throat. He had to leave him – had to at least go out and reconnoiter the area around them. Charlie was pinned in place by his injuries – if the man found them, he would shoot at them from out of the fog bank, taking advantage of Charlie's inability to move, maneuvering until he killed them. Don had to find him, before the man found them first. He didn't admit to the hatred that was driving him – the black, overwhelming need to kill the man who had done this.

"Charlie, I have to go find him," he said softly. "I'll be back; then we'll get you out of here. You just need to hang in there, okay? If you hear anyone, stay quiet – you're hidden under here. I'll be back, I promise."

The statement reminded him of his last promise, made to his father in the kitchen. "_I'll watch over him, Dad, I promise_." Those words rang in his head now, mocking him, as he rose and slipped back out on the trail. His father had trusted him with Charlie. Charlie himself, after Don had given him every reason not to, had trusted him, and this was the result.

His black long sleeved T-shirt felt damp from where Charlie pressed against it, and normally it would have chilled him, but he was hot with adrenaline. Without the jacket his gun and holster were exposed, and to make it less obvious that he was packing he slipped the gun out of its holster and tucked into the waistband of his jeans in the back. A few feet back down the trail, he removed the holster and tossed it aside in some bushes. The current was still buzzing in his head like an angry hornet, and fury over what had happened, hatred toward the man who had caused all this seeped through his mind like black ink. He made his way back to the clearing where he'd found Charlie and began to track his way back through the fog, following scattered droplets of blood. He had hit the bastard and he was bleeding; Don took grim satisfaction in that. He would find the son of a bitch, if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

J. Scott Marsh stopped running and stood gasping, forcing himself to listen for sounds of pursuit. His shoulder throbbed with agony, and he could feel blood running down his shirt, inside the vest. He checked the wound, quickly. It was a through-and-through, with the entry and exit holes in his upper arm. He fumbled with the pockets of the vest and flipped open the small video screen, while he searched another pocket for a bandana to bind the wound. He had to see where Eppes was, what he was doing. He had to stop running, and plan.

The screen was dark, and Marsh cursed. Don Eppes had either taken off the jacket or disabled the camera, somehow. He wrapped his arm as well as he could and stood for a moment, leaning against a tree, trying to gather his thoughts. The Eppes men had set him up, there was no doubt – either that or something had gone wrong with the controller. He'd taken a quick desperate shot at the professor as he saw Don Eppes' gun swing toward him, and even with the ensuing pain and shock of his own bullet wound, he caught a glimpse of Charlie as he pulled the trigger of his own gun. The quick jerk of Charlie's body that told Marsh that he'd hit him, somewhere in the torso. It might well have been a fatal wound. It could be that the only person he had to deal with now was Don Eppes - maybe he could still make it out of this. He could get his shoulder patched up somewhere; get back to Vegas to his sister's to recuperate for a couple of days, and then back home to D.C.

As he thought about it, perhaps the murder-suicide plan wasn't even out of the question - the bullet in Charlie Eppes had come from his gun. As far as he could tell, they were alone in the woods. He could kill Don Eppes with that same gun, leave it with him, and instead take the Beretta he had given Eppes – it would still look like the gun that had killed both of them had belonged to Don Eppes. Yes, he could still possibly stage something that would look as though Don had killed his brother and then himself. If not, and it ended up being plainly murder, it still didn't matter – they couldn't trace it back to him. Both his gun and the Beretta were unregistered street pieces that Jorge Cazares had obtained for him in L.A. They were untraceable. Yes, there was no question; he couldn't leave until they both were dead.

He glanced at the low growth at his feet, spattered with his dripping blood. He'd found a trail and stayed on it because it was faster, easier going, and he was sure he'd left droplets of blood along the way. If Don Eppes was trying to follow him, he'd be coming along it, and if he wasn't he'd likely be with his brother. Either way, Marsh had to head back towards them. He moved back out onto the trail, backtracking for a few yards, and then slipped through some bushes along the edge, making sure he left no traces of blood that would show that he'd left the trail. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he began creeping back the way he had come, along the trail but off to one side, through the fog-shrouded trees.

* * *

Ian, Colby, and David came into the clearing near the stream bent low with guns extended, all of them peering into the fog around them. They stepped smoothly without the bulky packs; they'd left them at the top of the slope hidden in some bushes so they could move without hindrance. It was obvious that Charlie was gone, and Ian frowned as he squatted near where he'd seen him lying. There was blood on the rocky ground, the question was, whose? He couldn't have done more than wing Don Eppes; he guessed that he had hit him in the upper arm. Of course, if he'd hit an artery, there would be a sizable amount of blood, but considering how quickly Don had moved after the shot, Ian surmised that his hit hadn't caused too much damage. The blood was right where Charlie had been lying; it had to be his. "I think Charlie might have been hit," he said. "Hopefully, not too badly since he's not here; and there doesn't appear to be a lot of blood. Don and the other man ran off into the trees as soon as they were hit. Charlie must have gotten out of here under his own power."

"Either that, or one of them doubled back for him," said Colby, grimly.

Ian stood and pulled his radio from his belt, walking the clearing, examining the traces of blood on the ground. "We're at the clearing," he said into the radio, to Masters. "Do you have a position on Don?"

Masters' voice came back to through the speaker. "We do, but he's showing as stationary, not too far from where you are. We're betting he ditched the jacket. Did you find Charlie?"

"Negative," said Ian. "We think he's hurt, but he must have taken off, or maybe he's with one of them. There's a blood trail leading northwest of here, which is the direction that I saw Don and the man take, and another that looks like it might head back across the creek, to the south. I'm hoping that one is Charlie's – we're going to go check it out."

"Roger that. We've got men cordoning off the area, patrolling the roads, and there's an army medical chopper on the way. It'll come in due south of you, there's an open flat area in the next valley over."

"Roger." Ian hit a button on the radio and clipped it back on his belt, turning toward the creek. "Let's go. I think this blood trail might be Charlie's – it's in the opposite direction of where the others headed."

* * *

Charlie lay under the overhang, his body racked by uncontrollable trembling, brought on by shock and pain. The pain in his hip and his gut were ramping up, growing to a point to rival the agony in his leg. His entire left side from the waist down was throbbing, aching; burning.

When the bullet had first hit, he hadn't even known he'd been shot. He'd seen Don start to raise his gun toward his head and he closed his eyes; he couldn't bear to watch as his brother pulled the trigger. There were two sharp cracks and he had felt his body jerk; at first he'd thought Don had hit him in the hip with the club again, he could feel the strike but it didn't hurt badly – at least not as much as Charlie would have imagined a bullet would hurt. He had kept his eyes closed as the sound of running footsteps grating on rock sounded around him and then receded; then he shakily opened his eyes.

Don and the man were gone; something had scared them off, and Charlie had wondered if it was Ian, Colby, and David. As the seconds ticked by, however, he realized he was alone, and the pain in his hip began in earnest. He craned his neck to look but his dark sweatpants revealed nothing, so he had touched the area tentatively and his hand came away red with blood. That was when he realized that the blow he'd felt had been caused by a bullet; it had apparently struck him in the lower abdomen, just inside the left hipbone. Whether the bullet belonged to Don or the unknown man, he didn't know, and it didn't matter. If it wasn't Don's it might as well have been. Charlie had seen the look of hatred, the cold sneer on his face as Dan had asked him whether he should shoot him, or let him suffer. In spite of all of Wilkes' work with him, Don hadn't been deprogrammed – and probably never would be. Charlie was going to die out here, knowing that he'd never have his brother back – knowing that the Don he knew was gone after all, and was never returning.

It seemed an eon, a lifetime of pain, but Don did return, standing over him with a gun, back to finish the job. By that time, Charlie's heart had broken, along with his will to live, and he begged him for deliverance, begged him to take the shot and finish it. Instead, to Charlie's surprise, Don had put the gun away, and gently touched his face, telling Charlie that he wouldn't hurt him. He looked and sounded like Don, except for his eyes – they were still dark and distant, and Charlie knew that Don was still under the influence of the controller. As badly as he wanted to trust him, he couldn't. Still, when Don carefully lifted him, Charlie's hand had seemed to act of its own accord, reaching for Don's shirt, clutching it desperately, as if clinging to hope, grasping for the brother he once knew.

Now, he lay there under the rock overhang, in the semi-darkness. Don was gone again, and Charlie lay there in mounting misery, shaking, his mind only half-functioning, incapacitated by pain. He dimly remembered Don saying he had to go but he'd be back; his voice sounding distressed, apologetic, but Charlie wasn't sure if the memory was real, or if it was just something that he wanted to hear, conjured up by a pain-riddled mind. It was quite possible that Don had chosen to let him suffer, and left him to die under this rock. He didn't know anymore; he couldn't think. There was nothing but pain…

* * *

Don stepped along the trail, his head down, searching for blood spatter. Although the fog made it difficult to see, at least it wasn't raining – the blood drops were visible enough that Don could pick them up. It soon became apparent that the man was following a small trail that led northwest, away from the clearing and the creek, and that made the tracking easier. Don picked up his pace, his eyes searching for the blood drops that would verify he was still on the right track. He was focused on a drop a few yards ahead, when suddenly a body hurtled itself at him from the dense brush beside the trail.

The man was big and hit him hard; Don landed sideways on his ribcage, and the air left him with a whoosh. He responded instantaneously, landing a punch then grasping at his opponent, who had apparently hoped to knock him down and then finish him off with the gun that he held. The man was still wearing his ski mask; Don could see gray keen-looking eyes through the holes, narrowed with the effort of the struggle – or possibly from the pain of the man's injured right shoulder. That shoulder was obviously hampering his efforts, but Don was more worried about the man's hand, which held the gun. They rolled, and Don gripped the man's wrist with fingers of iron, trying to dislodge the weapon. The man forced him onto his back and Don could feel his own gun digging into his spine, and he was thankful that he'd taken it out of the more obvious holster. If the man didn't know it was there, Don might have a chance to get to it…

The man fought dirty, trying to land punches with his left hand, trying to claw at Don's face. Suddenly he shifted, attempting to pull away. The tone of the struggle had changed, and Don knew that his assailant was panicking, and now appeared simply to be trying to cut his losses and escape. He gave the man's hand a powerful jerk, dashing it against the rocky trail, and the gun came loose, bouncing away into the brush. The man was desperate now, and he landed a knee in Don's gut that took his breath away, but he still clung hard to the man's right wrist – there was no way he was letting go.

The man's shoulder injury was preventing him from wrenching his right hand out of Don's grasp, but he still managed to come down with a nasty chop with his left hand on Don's right shoulder. Don gritted his teeth as he felt the battery on that side grind into his collarbone, and he returned with a jab at the man's jaw, his fist connecting hard with the ski mask. The man spun away with a grunt, and the twisting motion made Don lose his grip on the man's right hand. He grasped at air as the man rolled, catching the armhole of his vest, and the man pulled away, his arm popping free. Don rolled to his feet, still gripping the vest as the man found his feet and pulled his other arm out, trying to stumble away. Don was left holding the vest; he cast it aside and ran after the man, diving, hitting him in his legs in a flying tackle, and as he hit, he felt an odd metallic snap near his right collarbone, as some part of the assembly on that side gave way. At the same instant, he felt an excruciating rush of pain through the right side of his head, and he rolled off, barely aware of the man jumping to his feet and dashing away, out of sight around a bend, into the fog.

The pain was so intense that Don could emit no sound for a moment; he lay there writhing helpless on the ground, grasping his head with both hands and curling in on himself. The right side of his head was buzzing, breaking, on fire…

Some working fragment of his brain told him that something had gone wrong with the device, and the vest must have a control to turn off the current. He rolled somehow, and saw it lying there where he had thrown it. Groaning, gasping, tears of pain streaming from his eyes, Don crawled toward it haltingly, half blind with agony, certain that if he couldn't manage to turn off the controller in time, it would kill him.

* * *

End Chapter 55

_A/N: I seem to have become addicted to cliffies. You just fell off one ledge onto the next, but this time you shouldn't have to wait so long._


	56. Chapter 56

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 56**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews and the continuing alerts; you are so kind. _

……………………………………………………………

Don collapsed on the vest, scrabbling helplessly at the pockets. His vision was blurring, and he was losing control of the left side of his body. Clumsily, he flipped open pockets, looking for the current controls. He had an idea of what to look for, after spending so much time with Wilkes' larger version of the controller. There - he found it, his fingers desperately gripped the knob, and he dialed it down, sagging with relief as the current receded. For the first time in nearly three days, there was no buzzing in his head, and he just lay there for a moment, trying to regain his senses.

Finally, he gathered enough strength to sit up, and he glanced up the trail in the direction the man had run. He was long gone, now, and it was fortunate; if the man had come back while he lay helpless on the ground, he could have finished him, easily. Don gingerly fingered the lump near his right collarbone, trying to figure out what had happened. The pain had been only in the right side of his head – the device they had installed to dampen the current must have broken free somehow, perhaps damaged during the struggle, allowing current at full strength to pour into the right side of his brain. More than likely, the fact that the left side of his brain was still relatively unaffected was the only thing that had saved him – he'd been cognizant enough of what was happening to find the controller and turn it off.

He sat there for a moment longer; making sure the effects of the current had worn off, ascertaining that he had normal function in his limbs. He was still half-stunned, but the significance of what he held in his hands suddenly occurred to him. He had the vest – the man couldn't control him anymore; he was free, unless there was another controller out there.

After a moment, he regained enough control to push himself shakily to his feet. The man was now not likely to be a threat – Don was sure he had fled, giving up when his attack failed. He would probably try to escape the area and try again later, but that was a worry for another day. Don was in no condition to pursue the man now, and he felt suddenly, strongly, that he needed to get back to Charlie. He needed to find Ian, Colby, and David in the fog, somehow, and get help. If nothing else, there was the radio in Charlie's pack, still probably lying where he'd left it, back in the little hollow. He felt tendrils of fear curl around his heart as he staggered back down the trail, carrying the vest. _Charlie_ – he felt suddenly, strongly that he never should have left him. His legs began to regain some semblance of coordination, and as they did, he began to run.

He loped back down the trail, through the clearing, splashing noisily across the creek, and up the smaller trail along the bank. He felt instinctively that something was very wrong, and chided himself for leaving Charlie there alone. Now that his head was free of the current, he began to realize how much his decision processes had been affected for the past few days. He'd made at least three decisions he never would have made in his right mind. He'd left Charlie, twice, in pursuit of the man, as hatred for him took dominance in his mind, and the third bad decision was the first one he'd made – the one he never should have made to begin with – the decision to bring Charlie out here. What had seemed like a good choice at the time now seemed a horrible mistake, and Don knew that he wouldn't have made it if he hadn't been under the influence of the controller. That didn't make him feel any better, as he approached the overhang, slowing his pace to a walk.

He suddenly realized it was very quiet, and he stopped dead as he came around the bend and saw the overhang. That feeling was replaced by a white-hot bolt of fear, as a cold muzzle pressed suddenly against his neck. "Don't move," said a voice, and Don dropped the vest and raised his hands slowly to chest height, to show that they were empty.

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Ian Edgerton stood, holding the pistol to Don Eppes' neck, and quickly removed the pistol in Don's waistband as David Sinclair moved out from behind a tree, his own gun extended. David swiftly moved to Don's side and patted him down. As his search reached Don's legs, David knelt, and he pulled up the leg of Don's jeans, removing a lethal looking knife in a sheath. Ian handed him Don's gun, and then reached out a hand and turned Don around, studying him. Don's face and clothes bore smears of mud and appeared damp, his hair was disheveled, and his left hand was covered with blood that was seeping down from the wound in his arm. His face was pale, and his eyes, dark with irritation, burned in it like coals, although he'd borne the search patiently, silently. "What is this, Ian?"

Ian ignored the question. "Where'd you get the gun and the knife, Don?" His voice was quiet, and he kept his face expressionless. David had picked up the vest and moved away a yard or two, then set it on the ground and examined the gun. He was methodical, professional, although Ian could see a hint of distress in his dark features.

Don's voice was level, but filled with tension. "They were left for me at my apartment."

"By your controller?"

"Of course. You heard Masters; he wasn't going to let me carry a piece."

Ian eyed him, speculatively. "So you just went against his orders, and took it anyway. Along with the knife."

Don's eyes flashed. "If you were in my position, you would have done the same thing, Ian, and you know it. I wasn't coming out here with Charlie without some way to protect ourselves. Plus, the controller could see every move I made. He had a camera in my apartment; he could watch me pack. If I _hadn't_ brought them, he would have been suspicious." His voice hardened. "Now, if you're done playing cop, I'd like to see Charlie."

Colby Granger had emerged from under the overhang where he'd been sitting with Charlie, and Ian could see the conflicting emotions in both his and Sinclair's faces. David was examining the Beretta he'd take from Don, and he looked up. "One round fired," he said quietly.

"Where are we going to find that bullet, Don?" Ian asked softly.

"In the perp," Don retorted, testily. "I hit him in the right shoulder. He took the trail on the other side of the creek. I tried to go back for him and he jumped me, and he ended up getting away. Why are you asking?"

Ian's eyes narrowed. "Charlie has a bullet in his hip. The last time I saw you, you were pointing a gun at him – we were up on the ridge above you."

Don had paled, and his eyes widened. "Charlie was shot?" He shook his head in disbelief. "But when I carried him here, I would have noticed…," His voice trailed off, and a look of comprehension dawned on his face. "His hip felt damp, but I was supporting it with my left arm. I thought the dampness was _my _blood." He gestured slightly with his injured arm.

Ian could see the gash in it; and the sleeve of dark, close-fitting athletic shirt looked soaked. Don's expression turned anxious, and he looked at Colby, then at the overhang. "He's still in there? How bad is it?"

Colby's gaze flickered uncertainly to Ian, then back to Don. Ian could see Granger wavering, Sinclair too. They both wanted to believe him. Hell, Ian did, too, but he couldn't afford to act on that belief until they had proof.

"He's still conscious," said Colby slowly. "He's bordering on shock; they've got a chopper on the way."

Don was shaking his head, a very credible look of distress on his face. "I don't understand. If I shot the man, and he shot me, where did the third bullet come from? I'm sure he only got one shot off."

"It came from me," Ian said expressionlessly. "The man didn't shoot you in the arm, I did." Don stared at him, and Ian's gut twisted uncomfortably at his look of stunned betrayal.

"Then the bullet in Charlie must have come from him," Don said slowly. "When I was hit in the arm, I just assumed the man shot me -," he broke off, anguish in his face. "Please, you have to believe me. I did point the gun at Charlie, but I was maneuvering, trying to buy time to get a shot at the perp. I need to see Charlie, please." He pointed at the vest, lying near David. "I wrestled that away from the man and turned the current off. I know I made some bad decisions, but I'm thinking clearly now - I just need to see him."

David and Colby were looking at Ian, and he could see they were both hoping that he'd say 'yes,' but Ian knew he had to put personal feelings aside. He was in charge, and needed to be objective. He had to ask himself – if Don were any other suspect, what would he do? He paused. "Cuff him, Sinclair."

Don mouth opened in protest. "Ian! For God's sake -,"

"I'm sorry, Don," Ian cut him off, his voice heavy, as David slowly, reluctantly pulled out a set of handcuffs. "I have to take precautions until we get ballistics back on that bullet. You can see him, if you're cuffed."

Don stared at him, and then slowly put his wrists out, wincing as David applied the cuffs. Colby stood there, taking in the scene with misery in his face. Don's voice was quiet, husky. "Okay, I'm cuffed. Let me see him."

Ian looked at Colby and David, who stood there, shoulders drooping dejectedly. David's eyes were flashing protest, but he stayed silent. Ian spoke to them. "We need to move Charlie out from under that overhang so the paramedics can get to him."

Colby nodded slowly. "I think it's warmer out here, anyway," he said. "That rock is cold." He cast an apologetic sideways glance at Don.

Ian continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "Colby, you and David bring him out, carefully. Then I need you two to go and see if you can pick up the perp's trail. Don and I will stay here with Charlie." They nodded, and headed for the overhang. Ian glanced at Don, who was studying him, silently.

"You don't believe I shot him, either," Don stated. His voice was quiet, and filled with calm conviction.

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

Don looked at him steadily. "You shot at me and missed."

Ian shrugged. "You moved. I missed. It happens."

Don shook his head. "Not to you, it doesn't." He turned as Colby and David carefully carried Charlie's limp figure from under the overhang, lifting him over the low brush at the mouth, and set him on a carpet of pine needles next to the trail.

Ian face twisted with the faintest of rueful grimaces. '_Busted,_' he thought to himself. Don was right; Ian believed him, or wanted to believe him. It was true, they now held the vest, but as long as Don Eppes had that wiring in his head, and especially under the suspicious circumstances, Ian couldn't afford to relinquish control of the situation.

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Don had begun to move toward his brother as soon as he saw him, and knelt down next to him as he was lowered to the ground. Although the fog was thickening, it was still much lighter out in the open than under the rock, and in the light it was obvious that Charlie's condition was serious. His face had taken on a grayish cast, and his breath was quick and shallow; his eyes closed in pain. David and Colby had taken off their camouflage jackets and covered him, and Don pulled one aside just a bit, anxiously checking for the wound, fumbling a little with his cuffed hands. "I still can't believe I didn't see this," he muttered, his fingers gently, uneasily trailing over Charlie's side, down his hip, searching for the bullet hole.

"His clothing is dark," offered David, his expression reflecting Don's concern. "You can't really see the blood, and like you said, you thought it was your own."

Don cast a quick anxious look at Charlie, who was still lying motionless with his eyes closed, and then back down at his hip, still carefully probing Charlie's side. "Where is it?" he asked, his voice rising. "I thought you said it was his left hip."

Colby knelt next to him and gently pushed aside Don's cuffed hands, trying not to let Don know that he could see that they were shaking. He gently pulled up Charlie's T-shirt and pulled the waistband of Charlie's pants down, revealing the dark hole just inside the left hipbone, oozing blood.

Don's heart dropped. When Ian had said 'hip,' he'd envisioned a wound on the outside of the hip, above the leg. Serious, certainly, but not life threatening in itself. This was a gut shot – far worse, and for a moment, Don felt dizzy with panic. Charlie was going to die, and it was his fault…

He realized, dimly, that David was speaking. "There's no exit wound, and it's not bleeding heavily." Don stared at the wound. David was right, at least as far as they could see. The bleeding didn't seem excessive, but was no telling how much internal bleeding there was.

"How far out is that chopper?" His voice sounded foreign, rough with fear.

"About fifteen minutes." Ian came and squatted beside him, examining Charlie. "They'll put down in the next valley over – it will probably take twenty minutes or so for them to get over the ridge and get a stretcher down here." He looked up at Colby and David. "You two had better get going. The perp's not getting any closer."

They nodded, and as they moved off, Charlie's eyes flickered open, dazed with pain. Don took his hand, gently, and held it between his own. "I'm here, Buddy," he said softly, his voice cracking. "I told you I'd come back for you."

Charlie's gaze rested on him for just a fleeting moment; then his eyes fluttered closed. Don thought he'd passed out again, but then his lips moved, and his eyes opened again. Don bent closer, trying to catch the faint words.

"…not your fault," Charlie was saying. His breath sounded ragged, labored, and he paused between words. "Was mine…pushed you to take…the assignment…," He stopped, shuddering as a convulsion of pain gripped him, and Don's heart sank as he realized that Charlie was trying to make sure that he didn't blame himself – it was obvious that his brother felt he was near the end.

Don swallowed fear, thick and acidic in his throat. "Charlie, listen to me. You're going to be fine – you need to hang in there. There's a chopper on the way, we'll have you out of here soon." His mind raced frantically through the time line for rescue. Fifteen minutes for the chopper, twenty minutes for the rescue team to reach them, another twenty to get back to the chopper, maybe more – they'd have to move more carefully once they had Charlie on the stretcher. Then the chopper would need time – how long? – to get to the hospital…

He gripped Charlie's hand tightly between his as Charlie's eyes fluttered shut again. "Charlie, please, Charlie, look at me, buddy. _Charlie, please_…"

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End Chapter 56


	57. Chapter 57

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 57**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: This is a longer one, actually the longest so far…_

* * *

J. Scott Marsh staggered over to a boulder, removed his ski mask and sat, panting heavily. The attack on Eppes had been a disaster; Marsh hadn't expected such fierce resistance. He'd hoped to knock him down, maybe even out, and get a shot to his head that would leave some residue; a suicide shot had to be close range. He'd had the advantage of size and surprise, and had thought that it would be an easy matter. He hadn't counted on the determination and skill of the agent, hadn't counted on the look of naked hatred in the other man's eyes, a hatred that seemed to give him unnatural strength. In the end, Marsh panicked and fled, just grateful to get away. He now was without his gun, and without the control vest. He could hear the distant sound of a chopper, and he realized that they were looking for him.

Yes, there was no doubt; he'd been duped. Don Eppes had clearly been able to resist his instructions – he wasn't sure how. He obviously still had the wiring in his head – otherwise his emotional readings wouldn't have shown on the monitor – but they must have incapacitated it somehow. That meant that this had been a set-up that involved more than just the Eppes brothers, and whoever had set it up would have men out searching for him. There was still a chance he could get out of the park undetected, but he needed to come up with some damage control if they found him. Thanks to the ski mask, no one had seen his face yet other than Charlie Eppes, and if the professor was dead, Marsh still might have a chance.

If he were caught, the story, he decided, would necessarily have to match the one he had given his supervisor - he was visiting his sister in Vegas. He would tell them he decided to get away for a hike for a few days while she rested after her chemo treatment. While hiking, he'd encountered a man in a green ski mask, who had jumped him. They struggled; the man shot him in the shoulder during the struggle, and then had run off. Ballistics wouldn't be a problem – there was no bullet in the wound in his shoulder. He wondered if Eppes had found his gun, or if it was still somewhere in the bushes beside the trail. If it were still there, he would need to retrieve it and fire another shot so it would match his story, and then leave it for them to find. If his story were to hold water, the gun needed to have two shots fired; one round in Charlie Eppes, one round shot at himself – an unsuspecting hiker. He would need to ditch the ski mask, his gloves, and his false paperwork. He had flown into Vegas as J. Scott Marsh, but he had flown in L.A. as Robert Miller, and had rented the car under that name – he couldn't afford for them to find anything with that name on it.

Damn, the rental car. It was sitting at a hotel a few miles from there – that was all right; it was conceivable that it belonged to the mysterious Robert Miller, but Marsh would need a story as to how he got to the Angeles National Forest from Vegas. He couldn't tell them he'd flown there and rented a car, there would be no record of it under his real name. He had another rental car that he'd gotten in Vegas under his own name; it was sitting at his sister's apartment. He thought for a moment; then pulled out his satellite phone. It was a black market phone, stolen and unregistered, like the guns. A normal cell phone wouldn't work in most of the park, but his satellite phone had a signal. He was carrying both phones; he couldn't afford to make calls to his contacts on his CIA-issued cell phone.

He punched in the number for his sister. "Hey, Lori. It's Scott. Listen, I need a favor. This is extremely important, and you can't tell anyone. Yes, it's related to a mission that I'm on. Look, this isn't dangerous, but it's vital. I need you to drive my rental car to the north side of Los Angeles, and park it at a hotel called 'The Pines,' in a small town called Three Points in the Angeles National Forest. There are tour buses that go through there a few times a day to ferry hikers back and forth – after you drop off the car, take the tour bus to Santa Clarita. From there, you'll be able to pick up a Greyhound bus back to Vegas. Make sure you pay for your bus tickets with cash, and I'll reimburse you. Can you do that for me? Okay, it'll take you about four hours to get to Three Points, you'd better get moving. You may hear something about me concerning a criminal proceeding – if you do, don't worry; it's not what it seems. Yeah, I love you too."

He shut the satellite phone, thought for a moment, then pulled out his legitimate phone, officially issued through the agency. It showed that there was no signal, but he dialed anyway, and placed a call to 911. If he didn't manage to escape, he would want them to find that phone, and pull up the record of calls. A man who had just been attacked would conceivably dial for help. He tucked the phone away, flipped his unregistered satellite phone open, and dialed again. It was early evening where Khalid most likely was. He had to let Khalid know that if he heard that Marsh had been apprehended, not to worry – he had things under control. The last thing he needed was for Khalid to direct another prison hit – on him. The call was answered after two rings.

"Yes?"

"I'm having some issues on this end," said Marsh. "I believe that I may have taken care of Dr. Eppes, but I need to verify that. If you hear that I have been taken into custody, you do not need to worry. I will get you word somehow if I need your help."

"You are too late for anyone but yourself," came Khalid's voice coldly. "Apparently Dr. Eppes has identified me from a picture. They have issued an international warrant for me, and a request to extradite me in every Western country. It has essentially destroyed my mobility and forced me, and the members of Aswad Shar'e, into hiding. I will have to redirect our efforts, put new contacts in place. This situation has set us back years. Do not contact me again – we are finished."

Marsh's heart dropped – he stood to lose millions if he lost this deal, not to mention credibility as an inside man for other opportunities. "I can make sure the issue is removed," he protested. "I can assure that Dr. Eppes will no longer be a factor – that must be worth something."

"It no longer matters to me whether he lives or dies," snapped Khalid. "As far as I am concerned, the damage is done. His death will only benefit you, now. This is over. Do not call me again."

The line went dead, and Marsh stared blankly at his phone for a moment. The loss of the proposed project was stunning, but he couldn't afford to think about that at the moment. His continued freedom was at stake. He deleted everything from the satellite phone, stomped on it and ground it into the rock, and threw the pieces into the underbrush. He couldn't afford to be caught with that phone – they could trace his calls from it. Then he stepped over to a large rock and squatted, putting his good shoulder against it and raising it with a grunt at the effort, and slipped the ski mask and gloves underneath it.

As plans went, he knew this was shaky. If he could cast enough doubt, however, if he were caught at least it wouldn't be an open-and-shut case. There would be enough of a question that there might be another man involved, that a jury would have a hard time convicting him. In addition, if he made it back out of the woods without them catching him, he'd have a chance to escape cleanly, and an escape route – his car, which, thanks to his sister, would be waiting for him in Three Points. Now there was one more thing to do – he needed to go back along the trail to where he ambushed Eppes, find the gun, and fire one more round to complete the picture. It would be risky to fire a shot, but not unduly risky in the fog. Then he would leave the gun for them to find. He only hoped that Eppes hadn't found it first, or worse yet, was still in the area. The agent was looking for an excuse to kill him; he was sure.

* * *

Half a world away, in Tehran, Khalid snapped his phone shut, and sat thinking silently for a moment. He had been forced to leave Spain, leave a cover that took years to build, that of a businessman in Madrid. He was not even welcome in Tehran – the Iranian government, once an Aswad Shar'e supporter, wanted nothing to do with the group now that their scheme had been discovered by the U.S. government. He was hiding in the home of a friend temporarily, before he and members of his group would set out for the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan. They would try to train new recruits; people who could carry on their work, but it would take years to come back from this.

The door pushed open and he rose from his bed, expecting to see his benefactor, Mahmed. Instead, two men with black bandannas over their faces wearing Iranian soldier fatigues stood in the doorway, holding automatic weapons. Khalid's heart jerked with terror, and he had only time to look toward his pistol on the nightstand before the bullets shredded his body.

* * *

Colby and David paused at the clearing where Charlie had been shot and examined the site for a moment, and Colby's eye caught something. He trotted over to a large tree and bent behind it; then straightened, lifting a pack, with a sleeping bag rolled up underneath it. "It looks like our perp left a backpack."

David moved over to him as Colby squatted and unzipped it, and plowed through the contents. "Nothing in here but clothes and gear," said Colby. "No weapons, no ID." He sighed. "This could be anybody's, as far as evidence goes."

David was silent, and Colby looked up at him. David's eyes were roving absently over the bloodstain on the ground. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," replied David quietly. "I'm just looking at the evidence to see how it matches up."

Colby frowned. "Matches up? You mean with Don's story? You don't believe him?"

"I want to," replied David. "But we need to do our job. If Don is telling the truth, the evidence should back him up."

Colby scowled and stood. "He's telling the truth. I don't agree with some of his decisions as far as this trip went, but even he admitted that he wasn't thinking straight. I don't think he's guilty of anything worse than that."

David sighed, and a bit of relief flashed across his face. "I was hoping you'd say that. That's what I thought, too -," he broke off as the report of a gun sounded. They both froze, trying to determine the source, the thickening fog made it difficult to determine direction.

"That way," said Colby tersely, indicating the trail at the edge of the clearing. "Down that trail that Don told us to take." He headed toward it at a jog. "Fog distorts sound, but I'll bet that was only about a klick away."

They ran down the trail until they had traveled what Colby determined to be a kilometer; then slowed, proceeding more quietly. The fog dampened vision and skewed sound, but it also provided cover. They had gone only another hundred yards, when they heard rustling up ahead, and Colby, who was in the lead, held up his hand. The sound stopped abruptly, but they headed on cat feet toward where they'd heard it last – a clump of bushes near the trail. They skirted them, nearly silent; then David motioned to Colby and stepped quickly around a large tree, barking, "Hands up where I can see them!"

Colby rounded the tree to see a good-looking man in his middle forties. His right shoulder was drenched with blood, and he looked pale, but composed. In fact, as the man spied the 'FBI' emblazoned on their navy T-shirts, relief washed across his face. "Agents," he said, "thank God. I thought he was coming back."

He started to lower his hands, but Colby snarled, "Keep those hands up! Place them on the tree in front of you." He and David proceed with a quick search, patting him down, and then stepped back from him and turned him around to face them.

The man seemed unperturbed. "My name is J. Scott Marsh – I'm a senior analyst for the CIA. I was hiking in the area, and a man in a ski mask ambushed me. He jumped me and we struggled, and then he broke away, took a quick shot at me, and ran off. He looked as though he'd been in a fight; his shoulder was bleeding. He was about my height, gloves, dark green ski mask, light eyes – Caucasian. He was in a big hurry. It happened just a few minutes ago – he can't be far."

David was eyeing him suspiciously. "I don't think he _is_ far – I think he's standing right here. Hands behind your back."

Marsh stared back at him, scowling, but he slowly complied and turned to give them access to his wrists. "You're making a big mistake, agent. The man you want is getting away, and you're harassing an innocent citizen – an injured innocent citizen."

"An injured citizen who just happens to have the exact same injury as the perp we're tracking," growled Colby, as he applied handcuffs. "Let's walk, Marsh – or whatever your name is."

* * *

Charlie blinked heavy lids, and uttered a soft moan as the world flickered into focus again. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, and 'out' was decidedly better than 'in.' Even when conscious, he was only dimly aware of the world around him, of Don's anxious face hovering over his own. Don seemed to be floating, his face suspended in the fog above him; everything had a strange, surreal quality to it. Voices sounded distant; vision blurred, each sense was distorted by pain and by an increasing, almost unbearable sense of thirst. He could hear Ian on the radio, talking with Masters and someone else – Ian and Masters seemed to be giving the person directions. All the while, Don hovered over him.

The voices wavered and grew dim; Charlie could see Don's lips moving, but he couldn't hear him anymore. There was a strange rushing sound in his ears, and then the darkness began to creep back around the edges of his vision. The last thing he remembered was the gentle touch of his brother's hand on his face, and then he was floating again, off into blackness.

* * *

J. Scott Marsh breathed deeply, trying to fight down the sense of panic that the cuffs unexpectedly produced in him. They had crossed the creek and were coming along a small trail, and he could hear voices on the hill above them and more voices in front of them. They rounded a bend in the trail, and Marsh's gut contracted as he saw Don Eppes, kneeling over a figure next to the trail. As his heart pounded, he inhaled deeply again and willed himself to calm, reminding himself that Don hadn't seen him without the ski mask. He recognized the other man, too – he'd seen him at Cypress Institute, although he'd been careful not to let the man see him. That man had been going by Ian Crocker, but Marsh had no idea whether that was his real name or not. They both came to their feet, staring, as the two muscular FBI agents propelled Marsh toward them.

There were other voices up on the hill, a quick glance upward told Marsh that there were rescue workers making their way down the steep slope, trundling a stretcher. It was the figure on the ground, however, that made him the most uncomfortable. That stretcher was undoubtedly for Charlie Eppes, and Marsh swallowed as he looked toward him. The professor's eyes were closed – that was good. He looked terrible, near death, and that was even better. Marsh took a deep breath of relief, and straightened. This just might work.

The black agent was speaking to Ian and Don Eppes, giving them Marsh's story. "He says he was attacked and shot by a man in a ski mask," he was saying, and Marsh saw Don Eppes' dark eyes narrow with fury.

"Bullshit!" he exploded, and came towards Marsh, but Ian grabbed him and held him back. It wasn't until then that Marsh realized that Don Eppes was in handcuffs, and he had to fight down an urge to smile. Apparently, Ian didn't trust Eppes any more than he trusted Marsh – that meant they didn't have all the facts, which meant that Marsh had an even better chance than he'd hoped of getting out of this, despite his capture. He only needed two things, he thought to himself, as his eyes strayed to the figure on the ground. A good lawyer, and for Charles Eppes to die before he regained consciousness. From the looks of it, he was going to get everything he wanted.

* * *

Don only dimly remembered the trek up the hill and over the ridge to the helicopter. Flares surrounded it – they'd thrown them down on the flat rocky area to help the chopper land in the fog. They shone in the mist eerily, ghostly lights the color of blood. There was a brief moment while they worked out the logistics of transporting all of them – it was a big military chopper and there was room, but the crew wasn't keen on taking two suspects with them, especially when their most critical patient had been shot by one of them. Ian and the chopper pilot squared off, each maintaining that he was in command. For a heart-stopping moment, Don had thought they were going to leave him and Marsh behind under the guard of Ian, David, and Colby, but the pilot took one look at Edgerton's cold eyes, and thought better of his stance. He relented, and they all piled into the helicopter.

Don was aware of the man sitting calmly across from them – according to Colby and David, he called himself J. Scott Marsh, and Don knew that Ian had already phoned the name into Masters, and Masters was on the phone to D.C. Don was certain that Marsh and man in the ski mask were one and the same – he was wearing the same clothing as the man he had encountered, he had the identical injury, and the same gray eyes. Yes, it was him; Don was sure of it. If he hadn't been so completely consumed with watching Charlie, he would have had a hard time containing himself; he was certain he would be across the chopper hold, trying to get his cuffed hands around the man's throat. The guy had balls, he had to admit. His story was so brazen that it might even ring true with a jury, or at least make them doubt the evidence enough to let the man off. He wasn't going to get off, though, Don kept reminding himself. Charlie could identify him. Charlie _would_ identify him, when he recovered. When, not if…

It had been a strange experience, roaring up out of the fog into sunlight in the chopper, and the light reminded Don that it was daytime, and he glanced absently at his watch. Eleven-ten a.m. It couldn't be – he and Charlie had broken camp and hit the trail at around eight-thirty. It seemed like a lifetime ago, not less than three hours.

The medic monitoring Charlie's vitals was frowning, and Don glanced anxiously at the monitors, while another medic bandaged his arm. Ian sat next to him, and Don yelled over the din at him, "Where are they taking him?"

"UCLA Medical Center!" Ian shouted back. In spite of the volume of their conversation, they could barely hear each other – the words were whisked away by the thrum of the chopper blades. "You're all getting treated there! It has a big enough chopper pad for this size bird!" Don nodded, his eyes roving back to Charlie's inert form, and Ian shouted again, "Masters said he'd call your dad!"

Don looked at him, and saw an unusual sight – a flicker of sympathy in Ian's usually hooded eyes. It didn't make him feel any better – in fact, it scared the hell out of him.

* * *

Alan strode through the emergency room entrance at UCLA Medical Center, through the waiting area, and kept going. He went by so fast that the clerk at the admitting window missed him; she'd turned to get paperwork, and by the time she turned back around, he was through the automated sliding doors. If she'd seen him, she'd have tried to stop him; non-patients weren't necessarily admitted to the ER area unless they had an okay from the doctor. She didn't know it, but it was a good thing she'd avoided the confrontation – there was no way Alan was taking 'no,' for an answer.

Frankly, he wished he _had _some answers. Masters had been cryptic over the phone, stating only that they did have a suspect in custody, but that Don and Charlie had been injured and were being taken for treatment to UCLA Medical Center. Beyond that, Alan had nothing - Masters said he hadn't seen them and refused to comment on their injuries. As he strode through the automatic doors, he could see David standing outside a door at the end of the hallway talking to an LAPD officer, and he made directly for him.

"David."

David looked up at the sound of his voice, and Alan's heart sank at the grim look on his face. "Alan," he returned by way of greeting, and nodded.

"Where are they?" Alan asked, breathlessly. "What happened? Masters wouldn't give me any details."

David hesitated for a moment, and his words came out slowly, reluctantly. "They took Charlie straight to surgery," he said quietly. "He's in there now. He has a gunshot wound, just inside his left hip, and a broken leg."

Alan blanched. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't something that serious. "W-what? How?"

"Something went wrong," David said, evasively. "We aren't quite sure of the circumstances yet."

Even through a sense of panic, Alan could sense that there was something that David wasn't telling him, but he had other questions. "And Don?"

"Don was shot, also, but it's a graze in his upper arm – pretty nasty gash, actually, but he should be okay."

"Where is he?"

David glanced at the guard, and then at the doorway of the exam room they were standing near. "He's in there – Colby's with him."

Alan turned without a further question and pushed through the door, ignoring David as he said, "Alan-," with protest and warning in his voice. He stepped inside, to find Don seated on an exam table and Colby in the corner. The doctor obviously hadn't been in to seen Don yet; his son was still in his jeans and a black hiking shirt. His arm had been wrapped with a bandage, but it was oozing blood; Alan could see that it had seeped through the dressing. Something was seriously wrong, Alan realized. Don was looking at him with despair and guilt in his face, and with the mussed hair and the mud on his face, he reminded Alan strikingly of Don as a teenager, miserably confessing that he'd gotten in a brawl with a kid at school and had given him a black eye. As Alan took in his appearance, he realized with shock that his son was in handcuffs, and suddenly it all made sense – Masters and David's reluctance to talk about what happened, the presence of a guard outside the door, Don's guilty face and the handcuffs… "_Oh, God_," he whispered, and looked at Don with sadness and reproach.

He said nothing else; he couldn't – couldn't stand to think that it had happened again, couldn't stand to be there and face that awful reality, and he abruptly turned and walked out the door.

* * *

Colby's heart contracted as he heard Don's voice crack. "Dad-," he said, but Alan just turned his broad back and walked out. Don's shoulders slumped in defeat, he lowered his head, and Colby felt a flash of impatience.

"This is not right," he muttered, and pushed out the door after Alan. Alan was walking away – he didn't appear to be headed anywhere in particular, except away, and Colby hurried past David and the guard. "Alan, wait."

Alan kept going, and Colby had to take him by the arm to get him to stop and face him. "Alan, listen -," he began, but Alan cut him off, his face and voice filled with grief.

"Don was doing better – I thought he could be trusted," he said, his voice cracking. "Wilkes didn't want them to go – he said they weren't ready, and he was right. We should have listened to him."

"Listen, Alan, we don't know who shot Charlie – it might not have been Don."

"_Might not_ have been?" Alan's voice was tinged with bitterness. "Just the fact that you're considering the possibility is enough, isn't it?"

"No, Alan it's not," said Colby firmly. "Ian made the call to put cuffs on him as a precaution, simply because he couldn't trust what someone else might have had Don do, with that wiring in his head. Don and the perp were both there with Charlie, but Don maintains he shot at the perp, and the perp must have shot Charlie."

A look of confusion crossed Alan's face. "Who shot Don, then – the perp?"

Colby grimaced, knowing how incriminating his answer would sound. "No – Ian did. He saw it go down from a distance through his scope. Charlie was down and Don and the perp were both there, pointing their guns at him, and Ian just assumed -," he broke off at the horrified look on Alan's face, and hurried on. "The bottom line is; Don says he was pretending to go along with the man until he could position himself to get a good shot at him. He shot at the perp at the same moment Ian shot at him, and Don maintains the man reacted by shooting at Charlie. The ballistics will confirm it, but I believe him. I think you should, too. He's beating himself up over this, Alan, for taking Charlie out there to begin with. Now that the current has been turned off in his head, he's thinking more rationally, and he's blaming himself for all of it."

He could see that he almost had him; Alan looked hesitant, uncertain as he weighed Colby's words. Colby spoke again, a plea in his voice. "He needs you now."

Alan's eyes dropped. "Charlie needs me now, too." His words were gruff, but he made no move to walk away.

"Charlie's in surgery – you can't see him now anyway," entreated Colby, his voice rising. "Even if Don did do it, it would have been because he couldn't help himself – he was still being manipulated by the controller. If you could have seen him with Charlie, afterward, and on the trip here – Alan, I just don't think he did it. You know in your heart that it wasn't his fault. He needs someone to believe in him, without waiting for a goddamn ballistics report."

Alan looked at him, then swallowed and nodded. "You're right," he said quietly, and turned and headed back down the hallway toward Don's room. Colby took a deep breath, and hurried after him.

Alan didn't wait for him, and the door to the exam room was closing in Colby's face as he rounded the corner. Colby hesitated just a moment, catching the question in David's eyes, then pushed the door open, intending to step in.

What he saw stopped him on the threshold. Don was still seated on the table, his head bowed, a cuffed hand over his face, the other hand hanging helplessly underneath, and Alan's arm was around him as he murmured words of encouragement in Don's ear. The small room was brimming with emotion, no less powerful because it was quiet, subdued.

Colby took a deep breath and stepped back out, and quietly closed the door.

* * *

End Chapter 57


	58. Chapter 58

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 58**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for your reviews. Twelve chapters to go…_

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Don looked up as A.D. Wright and LAPD Lieutenant Gary Walker entered his exam room, and for a moment, his gut clutched in irrational fear. They were here to give them the results of the ballistics test, and he felt a sudden sensation of panic. What if it _was_ his bullet in Charlie? What if Ian's shot had caused him to jerk so violently that he had inadvertently shot him? He felt Alan stiffen beside him, but his father kept his hand firmly on Don's uninjured shoulder. His other shoulder had been stitched and bandaged, and felt immeasurably better, at least temporarily – when the local anesthetic wore off it would be a different story. Charlie was still in surgery, and that was frightening in itself – they'd taken the bullet out over an hour ago, and Walker had a man run it immediately over to the ballistics lab. Alan and Don were now waiting for the ER staff to bring Don's release paperwork. That was whom Don expected when Wright and Walker pushed through the door.

Walker wasted no time. "You've been cleared, Don. We don't have the gun that the bullet came from yet – Masters has some men in the area, and has them looking for it. We do know, however, that the bullet definitely doesn't match the Beretta you were carrying."

Wright stepped forward with a key, released the cuffs, and handed Don a navy colored T-shirt, emblazoned with FBI letters. "I had someone run a clean shirt over from the office. Ian wanted to come in and do this himself, but I told him that I needed him to stay with Marsh. Ian sends his apologies."

Don accepted the shirt with murmured thanks, and shook his head. "He was just doing his job. I'm sure from his viewpoint, it looked pretty bad." In spite of his matter-of-fact words, he took in a deep breath of relief as the cuffs clinked free.

Alan's spoke behind him, his voice resonating with outrage. "He _shot_ you! From what you told me, if you hadn't turned at that precise moment, he could have killed you!"

Don smiled grimly. "Dad, he never meant to do more than wing me - take out my shooting arm. If Ian wanted me dead, I would be."

To be truthful, Alan's attempt to provide support and understanding, especially in the face of his worry for Charlie, made Don feel worse. Although it had been proven that he hadn't shot Charlie, he'd vowed to his father that he would watch over him – and instead he had taken him into danger, put him face-to-face with the man who wanted him dead. Even though he knew the current in his head had affected his ability to reason, he couldn't help but feel he should have been able to overcome it. He'd let current-generated anger and hatred govern his thoughts and create an insatiable need for revenge, and Rogan and Masters hadn't been any help – they wanted the perp in custody. Wilkes had been the only voice of reason in the whole affair, and Don had ignored him. They all had ignored him, but they all weren't Charlie's brother – he was.

"Any word on Charlie?" Wright was asking, and Alan replied.

"We just got an update, about ten minutes ago," he said quietly. Don could hear the pain and worry in his voice. "No specifics, just that he's still in surgery. We're hoping to get Don's release, and then we're going to the waiting area."

Don rubbed his wrists, absently. The brief feeling of relief that came with being cleared was vanishing, was being blotted out by an impending sense of dread. They'd taken the bullet out of Charlie over an hour ago, and he wondered what could be taking so long. From the look of tension on his father's face, Alan was thinking the same thing.

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In another exam room, J. Scott Marsh sat, grimacing as the doctor bandaged his shoulder. He had placed a call for a lawyer; he'd gotten the name of a law firm in the L.A. area that was large enough to have people who understood the laws concerning the crime of treason, and expensive enough to be good. He'd asked his counsel to meet him at the L.A. FBI offices, which was where he would be escorted as soon as he was released. He was hoping that the doctor would admit him, but unfortunately, the doctor declared him releasable, with provisional instructions for wound care and restrictions on use of his arm, and then left the room.

Marsh spoke affably to the nurse, a pleasant young man who was readying his paperwork. "There was another victim of the shooting, a man who was brought in with me, named Charles Eppes. I was wondering how he was doing?"

The young man was frowning at the paperwork in his hand. "I'm missing part of your discharge instructions," he replied. "I need to get it – I'll ask about him while I'm out there."

"Thank you," said Marsh. "I've been worrying about him."

Moments later, the young man was back, bearing more paper and an answer. As the door swung open, Marsh could see the agent named Ian outside – Ian Edgerton, he'd found out, not Ian Crocker. He felt a momentary flash of discomfort; hoping that the young man hadn't mentioned his request for information on Charlie Eppes to the men outside his door.

The door drifted shut, thankfully, before the nurse spoke. "Apparently he's still in surgery." He looked at Marsh sympathetically. "I guess he's in critical condition."

"Oh, that's too bad," murmured Marsh. He could feel a flicker of hope. "Thanks for the update." He glanced at his watch. One-thirty. His sister would need another hour yet to get to Three Points and leave his car. Between the trip to the FBI offices and time to confer with his lawyer, he could easily stall that long.

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David accompanied Don and Alan up to the waiting area; Colby had already gone ahead. It wasn't difficult to see how concerned Granger was about Charlie; Don reflected, and David, too. David had risked his life more than once to protect Charlie, and Don knew that Charlie had confided in Colby when he was dealing with residual anxiety after an attempt on his life. That had hurt then, and it still did; Don had always felt that Charlie should have come to him – both before and after that incident. He had always assumed that Charlie didn't need people for that – Charlie had a tendency to dive into his numbers for therapy - but that incident had proved him wrong. It wasn't that Charlie wouldn't open up and confide in someone – he'd obviously done that with Colby. Charlie simply wouldn't confide in_ him_.

As Don rounded the corner from the elevator and saw Colby pacing the surgery waiting area, nervously, and Amita and Larry sitting huddled in chairs, he had to admit that the reason for that probably wasn't entirely Charlie's fault. It wasn't as if Don himself had ever promoted meaningful conversation between them. And now, after everything that had happened, there might never be an opportunity – their relationship might be irrevocably damaged. Even if he managed to get his own head straight and finish his deprogramming, would Charlie ever look at him the same way again? Expecting someone to overcome memories of being threatened, assaulted and nearly killed was a lot to ask – it would take a deep sense of love and commitment for a relationship to survive that, and Don wasn't sure that Charlie had ever felt that way, to begin with. True, Charlie was not a savant when it came to relationships and people skills, but Don himself had never encouraged that kind of connection, he thought sadly. Why should he expect Charlie to see their relationship in that light?

If he was brutally honest with himself, there had been a time when he really hadn't cared if they had a real relationship. He'd moved back to L.A. when their mother was sick to be with her, and to support his father – his return then had nothing to do with Charlie. At that point in their lives, he and Charlie didn't have much of a relationship of any kind, other than a tenuous one based on old memories, some good, some not so good. Years of being apart had made them strangers, and Don hadn't been impressed with the brother he'd seen then – during their mother's illness Charlie had withdrawn into the garage like some crazy number-obsessed hermit. Don had seen it as selfish, and it had taken awhile for him to understand that it was Charlie's only way to cope with the pain of losing her; that his brother's psyche, in spite of his intellectual prowess, or maybe because of it, was somewhat fragile. Yes, he thought regretfully, he had started life in L.A. not really knowing Charlie, or caring if he got to know him.

That had changed over the past five years, as they began to work together. Don knew he felt very differently about Charlie now; as if they'd gone backward in time and rediscovered a deep affection that they had held in childhood, when things were simpler. The problem was; Don had never really acknowledged the change in his feelings to Charlie. He'd hoped that Charlie felt the same way, but he had to admit, he hadn't bothered to ask him. Perhaps it was simply pride that had gotten in the way; as long as he didn't admit his feelings, didn't put them out there to face possible rejection, he held control of the situation. Perhaps he'd just assumed that Charlie felt as he did, and no words were needed. The question lay unresolved, and now after everything that had happened, Don was afraid that not only would they not be able to get back to where they were, he was afraid their past lack of communication, their failure to acknowledge what they did have, would make it as if it had never been.

A movement down the hallway caught his eye and he looked up to see Jonathan Wilkes striding toward them, concern on his face. Don fully expected an 'I told you so,' but as Wilkes sat down beside him, looking anxiously into his face, all he said was, "How are you doing?"

Yet more concern that he didn't deserve. Don shrugged, the brief gesture a flash of impatient misery, and Wilkes looked at him and Alan, who, after stopping to speak quietly to Larry and Amita, had seated himself on the other side of Don. "I heard about the incident with the malfunctioning device in your collarbone," Wilkes said softly. "They put the control vest in evidence at the FBI office, and I stopped there to check it. There's a diagnostic screen in it – you need a code for it, and I'll bet Marsh didn't even know how to get to it. Among other things, you can check the last several current settings. Considering what happened out there, I wanted to make sure there was no potential for damage."

Alan stared at Wilkes. "Brain damage?" Don felt his gut shift uncomfortably. Brain damage. That was all he needed. Or maybe what he deserved.

Wilkes nodded. "Looking at the settings, I don't think there was – the current was dialed up to full strength, but within ordinary range. There is a 'kill' setting available, but again, you can only get to it via the diagnostic screen, and the setting history showed that it hadn't been activated. Still, to be safe, we should get an EEG, and we should also schedule you to get the wiring removed as soon as possible. Now that we have our man in custody, even Masters or Conaghan can't argue that you should keep it in place."

"We'll talk about it later," said Don brusquely. "We have other issues right now."

Wilkes looked hesitant. "I know you probably feel secure now that we have the vest, and it is true that there are no other vests unaccounted for out of Cypress Institute, but we need to consider the fact that it was held by someone else for nearly a month. There is the possibility that someone could have cloned the technology during that time. Plus, one of your dampening devices were damaged – as you well know, it is now possible to feed current at full strength to at least one side of your head. We need to get the wiring out as soon as possible."

"Not until I'm sure Charlie's okay," retorted Don stubbornly.

Wilkes sighed with resignation, and nodded. "I can understand that. Just keep in mind we need to do this soon." He paused. "How is Charlie doing?"

"We don't know," Don responded in a leaden tone. "We're waiting for an update." '_What in the hell is taking them so long?_' he asked himself, and as if on cue, a man pushed out through the double doors that led to the operating rooms.

"Charles Eppes?" he asked, and his eyebrows lifted as all seven people in the area rose from their seats. "Is there family here?"

Alan stepped forward. "I'm his father."

The man nodded, a bit wearily. "I'm doctor Johanssen. I did the surgery to repair the bullet wound. We had a hard time getting him stabilized. It wasn't apparent externally, but he'd lost an awful lot of blood – most of it in his abdominal cavity. We kept thinking we'd gotten all the damage, but his pressure kept dropping, and there was still blood in the area – we finally found a nick we had missed." Amita swayed a little on her feet, and Larry grabbed her elbow to steady her, and eased her back into her seat. Don felt a twinge of pain at the terrified look on her face.

"We had to remove two small parts of his bowel that were too damaged to reconstruct. The bullet came to rest against his pelvic bone, which sustained a small fracture that should heal on its own. That part of the surgery is complete, but there is a neurosurgeon and an orthopedic doctor now working on his leg. The break was very bad; both bones in his lower left leg had completely snapped, and the smaller one actually broke into three sections."

Don had a sudden, crazy, sick recollection of sitting across from Charlie at the office, and his brother grinning at him, showing him that a piece of raw spaghetti held on either end would always snap into three pieces, never two. He could feel a surge of nausea, which intensified as the doctor went on.

"Normally we would not deal with a broken leg immediately in someone who is in as serious condition as he is, but with a fracture this bad, they had to go in and check to make sure no major arteries or veins were severed, and check for nerve damage, so that he doesn't lose the leg. He will need more surgery on it later – without a doubt, they will need to put in pins and plates. In the meantime, he needs a chance to recover. His condition is critical, and he will be placed in the ICU after the surgery. We'll need to watch him closely – the bowel was perforated, and that can cause serious infection. There are also complications that can occur with such massive transfusions of blood, and he will be heavily sedated to mitigate the pain – for all of these reasons, he needs to recover in the ICU. It will be awhile yet, but we'll let you know when we take him up."

He scanned their downcast faces, with sympathy. "Do you have any questions?"

Alan spoke, haltingly. "So, what is the outlook? You think he will recover fully?"

Johanssen hesitated. "It's too early to tell right now," he said finally. "He didn't appear to be in the best condition to begin with. I understand that he was recovering from some stab wounds in his chest, and he appears to be somewhat malnourished – he's obviously not strong." He paused again. "The next twenty-four hours will be critical. After that, his chances should improve." He nodded at them. "Check at the ICU desk in about an hour – they should be able to tell you when they expect him, and help you with the visiting arrangements."

He strode off, leaving a stunned and silent group behind him.

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End Chapter 58


	59. Chapter 59

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 59**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Many thanks to my faithful reviewers. Here's 59…_

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Don shuffled into Charlie's ICU and sat heavily in a chair. It was early evening, and he was exhausted from the events of the day. His body was telling him he needed food and rest, but his mind refused to consider something so trivial, when Charlie was fighting for his life.

He'd let Alan and Amita spend time with him first. Robin had arrived, and Don sat with her while he waited, pathetically grateful for her presence. She'd shown nothing but faith in him since the start of this, and someday, somehow, he would have to let her know how much that meant. The ICU staff appeared to be relaxing their restrictions somewhat – they were letting one person stay in the room at all times, only asking the visitor to step out briefly when they periodically checked the patient. Although they weren't limiting visiting hours, they were keeping visitors in the room to one at a time, and they were holding the total number of visitors on the floor to three or four at once. The people not in Charlie's room were asked to retire to the waiting area, except for the guard outside the door.

Amita and Larry were still in the dark concerning Don's involvement in what had happened to Charlie, and Conaghan wanted to keep it that way. There was a good chance they'd never be told, but that didn't make Don feel any better. They looked at him as they always had, with trust on their faces, not knowing the horrible things he'd done. Granted, he hadn't been under his own control at the time, but he still felt responsible somehow. How could anyone forgive him? How could Charlie ever look at him again and not remember that horrible night in the conference room, and the events that had just transpired in the park? Add the fact that he'd talked Charlie into the circumstances that put him where he was in now, and he was sure, if Amita and Larry knew, they would hate him.

He looked at Charlie sadly. He was still out, his pale face half-covered by an oxygen mask, his leg swathed in a brace and layers of bandages that made it look impossibly huge, elevated at what looked like a uncomfortable angle, if Charlie had been awake to realize it. Tubes ran in and out of him, delivering fluids, medicine and blood, and taking away blood-tinged fluid from his surgical site. He looked so frail, so helpless, so – human. Don swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. '_Please, whatever happens; please let him get through this._'

There was only one bright spot – they had Marsh. If Charlie made it, he wouldn't have to worry about witness protection – but WP suddenly didn't seem like such a bad option, compared to this. Marsh, that bastard – Don's hands clenched into fists at the thought of him coldly giving direction from behind the tree, firing the bullet that now threatened Charlie's life.

His gut twisted as a thought occurred to him out of nowhere – he wondered if Charlie even knew who had shot him. His eyes had been closed, his face turned away as he'd been hit – did he think that Don had done it? A memory of Charlie lying there, begging him to end it, flashed into his mind, and brought with a stab of new anguish. Of course, Charlie must have thought that – he had to, based on his reaction. What if Charlie didn't make it; what if he died thinking Don had turned on him again at the end? The thought produced such a painful contraction in Don's chest that he could hardly breathe, and he leaned forward slightly in his chair, fighting the pain and despair that threatened to choke him. He was sure he looked like his father had, when Alan had left the ICU a few moments ago.

His father – God, what they'd put him through. What they were still putting him through - and despite Alan's support, no matter what he said, Don knew the truth – it was his fault. Charlie may have talked them into taking the original assignment, it was true, but Don had returned the favor, and persuaded Charlie into going on an assignment that didn't merely hold the possibility of peril; it had been blatantly dangerous. He'd been too sure of himself, too confident that he could control the situation, too filled with hatred, too eager to put away the bastard behind all of this. He'd vowed to watch over Charlie, for God's sake. Now, he wished mightily that Charlie had told him to go to hell.

Charlie stirred slightly, his breath quickening, and a soft moan came from under the oxygen mask. Even with the large doses of medication, he was still in pain. Don reached out for his hand, holding on as if he'd never let go. "It's okay, Charlie, I'm here," he murmured softly. His voice trembled; so did his hand. Maybe he shouldn't speak, he told himself. Maybe the sound of his voice was the last thing Charlie wanted to hear.

He lowered his head and sat silently, still clutching his brother's hand, wishing he knew how to pray properly. When this was over, he vowed to himself, he would learn how. For now, he'd do the best that he could. '_Please God, let him stay. Please don't take him…please…_'

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Alan sat in the waiting area and ran a weary hand over his face as Amita walked toward him. She looked pale and tired, and so did Larry, seated beside him. Robin had gone when Don went in to see Charlie, but David and Colby had stopped up too – at five, they were pushing the limit of people the ICU staff allowed on the floor, but there was no one else in the waiting area but them. At least for the time being, none of the ICU staff seemed to be holding them to the four they had given them as a maximum, as long as they went in to see Charlie one at a time. Amita had just finished her turn, and Don had disappeared around the corner toward Charlie's room. As Amita appeared, Colby rose to his feet. "I think I'm gonna go talk to the guard," he said quietly. "I think I know the guy."

He didn't fool Alan – he knew that Colby, in spite of his declarations that he believed Don to be innocent, was going back to help the guard keep an eye on Don. When it came down to it, no one really trusted Don yet, at least not until he had the wiring removed from his head. The lurking fear remained that someone might be still be out there with the ability to control him.

Alan patted Amita's shoulder gently as she eased into a chair next to him; she looked shell-shocked, and he was sure he probably looked the same. He had a horrible feeling in his gut, the fear that Charlie might not make it through this, and as he began to get over his initial shock and come to grips with what had happened, fear was slowly being replaced by anger. His sons had been pulled into something so deep and dark that even the CIA refused to acknowledge it, and when Alan thought about how the government had used his sons – disregarding any thought to their safety so that they could achieve their ends – it infuriated him. Even if Charlie lived, who knew what residual effects that both he and Don would suffer as a result of this? Those thoughts were rolling through his brain when the elevator doors opened, and Wilkes, Rogan, and Masters stepped out.

Wilkes, Alan could tolerate. The man seemed to be genuinely concerned about his sons, genuinely regretful of the part he'd played in Don's brainwashing. Masters and Rogan were a different matter. They looked exhausted, concerned, and apologetic as they stepped forward, but to Alan, they represented the agencies that had coerced his sons into this assignment, used them, and spit them out. They didn't know it, but they were walking lightning rods for his anger, and he rose as they came toward him, his eyes flashing and his jaw set pugnaciously. "You're not welcome, here," he growled, and they stopped short where they were.

"We need to talk, Mr. Eppes," said Masters quietly. He looked appropriately chagrined, which was saying something; Alan had to admit. Bill Masters didn't seem to be the type to apologize to anyone. "First, we wanted to ask how Charlie and Don are doing."

Alan could sense the others rising behind him, Amita, Larry, and David – all of them aware of the uneasy tension in the room. "What do you care?" Alan shot back. "You set them up for this harebrained venture, and let them think they were covered. It was poorly planned, and you know it. I don't care what you do, going forward, you're going to stay the hell away from my sons."

He was seething, furious, and he could sense the group looking at him, nonplussed by his rare display of anger. Both of his sons had a temper, and they didn't get it from their mother. Masters looked disconcerted, and Wilkes stepped in, trying to moderate. He looked at Amita and Larry, and said, "If you'll excuse us, professors."

They looked back at him, and for a moment, Alan thought that they were going to insist that they be allowed to stay, but then Larry capitulated. "Amita, I think you need to take some sustenance; you haven't eaten all day. Why don't we go down to the cafeteria?" She hesitated; then nodded, and they sidled around the agents and pushed the button for the elevator.

Wilkes waited until the elevator doors closed; then spoke quietly. "We're not trying to ask your sons to do anything more, Alan," he said. "We think we have the right man in custody – which we had to do if we wanted to make sure they were safe – you know that. It didn't go as planned, that's true. We underestimated the effect that even reduced current would have on Don's ability to make decisions, and we didn't plan for fog to hamper our pursuit team's ability to keep visual contact. We also didn't factor in the possibility that Charlie would bolt like he did."

Alan glanced at Wilkes. "You didn't want them to go – I'm not holding this against you. You were against it from the start." He glared at Rogan and Masters, leaving no doubt as to whom he thought was accountable.

Wilkes lifted a shoulder in acknowledgment. "That's water under the bridge now. What we came here to tell you is that the three of us, and Conaghan, all agree that Don needs to get the wiring removed from his head as soon as possible. Dr. Janovic, the surgeon who put in the dampening devices, has surgical rights at this hospital and he said he could be available tomorrow. We need you to help us to convince Don that he needs to get this done. It's a much shorter surgery to remove the wiring than it is to put it in – only about two hours, and he needs only a day of recovery before we can let him move around – he can see Charlie then."

Alan hesitated, torn between the wish for the surgery and the need for Don to spend time with Charlie, in case the unthinkable happened. David, who had been listening silently, gave voice to his thoughts. "They said the first twenty-four hours would be the most critical for Charlie. Maybe you'd have a better chance of convincing Don if you waited until late afternoon tomorrow to do the surgery."

"We can do that," Wilkes replied. "Alan?"

Alan sighed deeply, and nodded. "Yes. I'll try to convince him."

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Amita sank into the chair at Charlie's bedside the next morning and took his hand. The night had been endless; and sadly there seemed to be no change – Charlie seemed to be barely holding his own. The contact and the sight of him made sudden tears rise to her eyes, and she bowed her head, still clinging to him with one hand, and wiping away tears with the other. She was bewildered, shocked, and frightened by the recent events; it seemed as though she had stepped into a nightmare since she returned from Europe. That nightmare had started for Charlie while she was gone, and seemed to have no end. She couldn't even deal with it properly, because she didn't know the details, didn't understand what was happening, or why. All she knew was that the man she loved was lying here near death, and she was powerless to do anything but sit and hold his hand.

She blinked away tears and took a deep shaky breath as she looked at him. The bruise on his cheek had darkened since the day before, but other than that, his face was pale, sickly and stark against the dark stubble on his cheeks. There was one thing that was abundantly clear to her now, if it hadn't been before – she loved him, more than anything in her life. The recent events had brought that home like nothing else could.

Her eyes traced over his profile, the closed lids. His face seemed so innocent in sleep – for that matter, he looked guileless when awake, and it seemed inconceivable that he was hiding secrets – things he had kept from her for weeks. Last night, when the agents had come up to talk to Alan, she'd almost insisted that she be allowed to stay, to finally get the story, but Larry had talked her into leaving them. He was probably right, she thought wearily – some things were better left alone. She knew though, that if – no, when – Charlie recovered, she'd never look at him the same way. For one, he would now forever have a sense of mystery about him. For another, she knew now without a doubt how very much she loved him – enough to trust him, to stay by his side, no matter what secrets he held. She would live with anything, as long as he made it through this.

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It was early afternoon the day after they'd arrived at the hospital, and Don sat, facing Wilkes and Dr. Janovic in the tiny office they'd borrowed for the conversation. Wilkes looked at him; Don looked exhausted, and frankly not in the best shape for surgery, but he didn't want to wait any longer. "It's been twenty-four hours since Charlie was admitted," he said. "You can have the surgery, and see Charlie as early as tomorrow."

"And Charlie hasn't improved at all," Don said, stubbornly. "He's still critical."

"But he hasn't declined, either," Wilkes countered. "You can get this done, and you'll be healed up in time to help him when he needs it, when he goes home."

Don was silent for so long that Wilkes thought he was going to refuse, but finally he said, "I'll do it on one condition. You take out the dampening devices so you can get some clear readings, and do one more monitoring session with me. I want to see how far I've come before you take out the wiring. I need to know how much farther I still have to go."

Janovic looked troubled. "It would be easier on you if I did this all at once."

Don shook his head, stubbornly. "You only have to remove one device – the one on the right is already damaged or disconnected. You can give me a local anesthetic, take out the device on the left side, and just put a clamp on the incision or something. That's the deal, take it or leave it." He looked at Wilkes. "You owe me the chance to find out where I stand."

Wilkes studied him a moment, then nodded. "Okay." He looked at Janovic. "It won't take long – he's right, you can put a clamp or a temporary dressing on his collarbone, and when we're done, take him in for the remainder of the surgery."

"If I'm up to it later, I want to see Charlie," Don added.

"We'll see about that one," Janovic said firmly. "If I let you do this, then you have to abide by my recommendations afterward."

Don pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay. It's a deal." He stood, impatiently. "Let's hurry up and get on with it, then."

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Alan stood in the doorway of Charlie's room and watched as the doctors consulted. There were three of them – Charlie's general surgeon, Dr. Johanssen, his orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Boyle, and another doctor, who Alan hadn't met yet. They were speaking quietly, frowning with concern, and Alan felt his stomach slowly contract, as fingers of fear eased around it, squeezing. He waited until they finished speaking and headed toward him, and he backed out into the hallway to give them room.

"Mr. Eppes, this is Doctor Safak, our infectious disease specialist," said Johanssen, indicating the slight, dark skinned man at his side. "We're seeing some signs of infection – your son's temperature is elevated, and has been rising slowly all day. There is a good deal of swelling in his abdominal area, which is normal, but it does put pressure on the arteries going to his leg, and with the swelling there, we're concerned about reduced circulation. We're going to remove the dressings and check his leg, and Dr. Safak is going to run some blood work – lab tests, to see if we can determine what and where the infection is."

Safak took in Alan's alarmed expression. "There's no need to panic – we've been watching him closely and are catching this early. Can you tell me – did he have any problems after the knife attack?" His voice was kind, and slightly accented.

Alan nodded, trying to reply, and his voice came out hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "He was treated for infection – twice, I believe, once right afterward, and then it reoccurred later when he was home, and they gave him an antibiotic."

Safak frowned and exchanged a quick glance with his colleagues, which sent Alan's anxiety up another notch. "I'll need to look at those records," he murmured quietly, then turned to Alan. "All right, thank you, Mr. Eppes. We'll let you know what we find."

They turned and walked down the hall, and Alan watched them go, his heart in his throat.

Amita came around the corner and walked past them; she was coming to sit with Charlie while Alan went down to be with Don during his surgery. She looked at him questioningly. "Alan – is everything okay?"

He pulled himself together – no need to frighten her, too. "Yes – they just said they were going to check his leg and run some tests. Did you eat, dear?"

She nodded, and touched his arm. "Yes. You should too."

He forced a smile and shook his head. "I'm fine. I'll be back." He leaned forward and planted a light kiss on her cheek, then made off down the hall, before his expression gave him away.

As he neared the corner that led to the waiting area and the elevators, he heard the voices of the doctors, as they stood waiting for the elevator doors to open. He stopped; he recognized the accented voice of Safak. "…a concern," he was saying. "If the infection is in his lower pelvis, it could be aggravating the swelling, putting pressure on the femoral artery, reducing circulation in his leg. If it is in the leg itself, it could increase the existing swelling and retard healing. Either condition could mean loss of the leg. On the other hand, if the infection is systemic, in his bloodstream, we have an even greater problem. If it is systemic, it could be complications from the bowel perforation, or, based on what his father just told us, it might be something else – something drug-resistant."

The elevator doors opened, and Johanssen's reply was garbled by the sound of shuffling feet and the rattle of closing doors. It didn't matter; Alan had heard enough. He waited for the elevator doors to close and somehow, he forced his feet to move around the corner, in case Amita was watching him. He stood there in front of the elevator for five long minutes before he could make himself push the button.

Down on the surgical floor, he found the room where Don was sitting, waiting to be called in to be prepped for surgery. He carefully composed his features.

"Hey, Dad," said Don, his face softening as Alan stepped in.

"Donnie," Alan replied by way of greeting. '_Don't let on to him about Charlie,_' he told himself. '_If he knows, he'll cancel his surgery_.' He swallowed the lump in his throat. "They're getting ready to take you now?"

"Yeah. They're going to take out the dampening device on the left side, and then Wilkes is going to get a reading to see where I stand before they take the wiring out."

He was trying to look upbeat, Alan realized, but he could see the tension in Don's eyes, his body. It would be the first time in days that they'd been able to get a reading on how his deprogramming was going, and Alan watched as Don looked down, fingering a clear plastic envelope, attached to a string. In it, Alan could see a folded piece of paper, and he knew it was Don's last printout of his feelings for Charlie, taken many days ago, before they'd put the devices in place. His son had apparently been wearing it around his neck ever since, and the gesture touched him. Don was worried, Alan knew, not about his impending surgery, but about the results of his session with Wilkes. He tried to push down the ugly fear that it might not make a difference in the end, if Charlie didn't make it. He couldn't think that way, he scolded himself. He forced a smile to his face that he hoped was reassuring. "I'm sure you'll do fine," he said softly.

Don sighed, and nodded. He looked up at Alan. "How's Charlie?"

"Okay," Alan lied. "About the same. You just worry about yourself for today – you'll see him tomorrow."

Don nodded again, and his gaze drifted back down to his paper. The lie had come out so easily, thought Alan. The whole venture, from the beginning, had been filled with lies – from the moment the boys lied to him about going to Quantico, weeks ago, and all the twisted falsehoods, shifting statements, and half truths ever since. Now he had joined them – lying to Don while his brother lay dying - forced into playing games like the rest of them. Games of distortion, games of deceit, mind games…

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End Chapter 59

_A/N: No, Marsh isn't done yet, in case you were wondering. In this chapter, I make a reference to Don learning how to pray. It gives you an indication of how long this story has been in the making – when I started writing it, the episodes dealing with Don's search for his faith hadn't been aired yet. This story takes place at a point in time prior to that – although I couldn't resist putting in a line or two that hint at it in the future._


	60. Chapter 60

**Chapter 60**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks again for the reviews._

* * *

Ian Edgerton, A. D. Wright, Bill Masters, Brian Rogan, and Robin Brooks stood outside the interrogation room at the FBI headquarters, eyeing J. Scott Marsh and his lawyer through the one-way glass. "Any progress?" asked Wright.

Ian grimaced. "He's saying the same thing as yesterday. He maintains that he drove out to the Angeles from Vegas. He says he's been in Vegas visiting his sister, who is battling cancer, and she told him he needed to get away for a couple of days. We called the sister and she confirmed his story. He left his rental car, which was rented in Vegas, at the Pines Motel in Three Points – we found it there, so that part of his story checks out. The motel owner said he wasn't registered there, but that's not unusual; hikers often leave their cars there and catch a bus or another ride to a trailhead. The owner lets them do it – sometimes he'll get a booking for a night or two when they get back off the trail."

He glanced through window, and continued. "Marsh's round trip plane tickets – D.C. to Vegas - are under his name. There's nothing to indicate that he tried to hide the trip. In addition, while our people were at the Pines, the owner indicated another rental car that had been there overnight, that didn't belong to any of his guests. It had been rented at LAX, by a Robert Miller. Robert Miller flew in from Vegas to L.A. a couple of days ago, with a return ticket for tomorrow. He rented a hotel room in Burbank for two nights, and checked out early yesterday. We ran a picture past the clerk at the Burbank hotel – he's sure that Miller and Marsh are the same man."

Brian Rogan spoke up. "We ran some checks on Marsh for other key time periods. During the time that Charlie saw him at Montreaux's estate, he was supposedly in Pensacola on vacation, which is about three hours away, within easy driving distance of New Orleans. Just prior to the date that Dr. Allman and Joe Bishop were murdered, Marsh had flown back down to Pensacola. He gave us an alibi for that trip – a visit to a girl he allegedly stayed with at a condominium in Pensacola on the night of the murders. We're in the process of getting her story. He also established that he knew Jack Montreaux – they were boyhood friends, although he claims he hadn't seen him for years. He admitted the fact freely to his supervisor, who had mentioned the Montreaux hearings to him. His lawyer says that's proof that he has nothing to hide."

Bill Masters frowned. "What we don't have is any proof of his connection to Montreaux or Khalid. We have found no ID on him, or with his things, that says he's Robert Miller. Also, no ski mask, or gloves, which Don Eppes told us he was wearing. We found a cell phone on him, with a call to 911 around the time of the attack – although he probably knew he wouldn't get a response, that he had no cell phone service – so he could have made the call for appearance's sake. Our people are running through his call records over the last several months to look for anything suspicious, but so far, there is nothing – no contact with Khalid, no contact with Montreaux. We suspect another cell phone, but we haven't been able to find one. We did find the gun – it was close to where Colby and David apprehended him, but there were no fingerprints on it. It's a street piece, untraceable, like the Beretta he sent Eppes. It produced ballistics that match the bullet taken from Charlie Eppes. There was no gunshot residue on Marsh's hands and no fingerprints on the gun or the control vest, but there wouldn't be if was wearing gloves."

"So all we can establish is opportunity – that he was in the general area of all of these events," said Wright. "No proof of motive, no proof that he was actually in New Orleans instead of Pensacola. No proof, other than the hotel clerk's ID, that he and Robert Miller are the same person. If he flew in here as Robert Miller, how in the hell did his car get here from Vegas? Did we check Miller's car for prints?"

"Yes," said Ian. "There were prints in it, but not his. The door handle and steering wheel had been wiped down. He's a careful son of a bitch, but we also have Don's ID. Don says the location of Marsh's bullet wound is identical to the one in the man he shot, and that Marsh was wearing the same clothes – jeans and a navy shirt. His size and eye color is the same as the man Don encountered. Plus, we have his blood on the control vest, or we're assuming we do. We're running it through DNA now."

Wright turned to Robin. The U.S. District Attorney would handle the case, but they had called Robin in for a professional assessment. "What do you think?"

She shook her head. "Mind you, it's just my opinion – I won't be prosecuting this case, obviously, but I don't think you have enough. Your one ID was made by a hotel clerk from a picture. If you tried to have that same man pick Marsh out of a line-up, the judge probably wouldn't allow it, and if he did, the defense would tear it apart. They'd say you biased the clerk by showing him a picture – of course he would pick Marsh out of a lineup after that. The defense could say that Marsh being in the general area of the Angeles National Forest, or near New Orleans, was merely coincidence, and the evidence would point to the presence of another man in the park – where did the gloves and ski mask go, if there wasn't another man? Even if you managed to find them, you wouldn't have proof that another man didn't leave them there. The blood on the vest is good, but Marsh maintains that the man jumped him, and he was shot while they struggled. The defense could argue that Marsh's blood got on the man's vest during the struggle. There's really only one way to seal this - Charlie's testimony that he saw Marsh in New Orleans. He's still the only one who can put Marsh in the middle of this – who can put him away for sure."

They were silent for a moment, and Wright pursed his lips. "How's he doing? Any improvement?"

Robin lifted a shoulder. "I'm not sure – I'm on my way over there right now. Don's going through surgery in a half hour. I'll call you with an update when I get there."

* * *

Don sat in the wheelchair, waiting while Jonathan Wilkes adjusted his monitoring equipment. He had just had the dampening device removed from his left collarbone, and had been wheeled into an adjoining room in his hospital gown. He felt no pain – the local anesthetic they'd given him for the small incision had taken care of that. In fact, the healing gunshot wound in his upper arm hurt more than the surgery site. He toyed with the plastic sleeve containing his original printout, and realized he'd nervously twisted the string attached to it in a ball. He released it, his fingers twitching, as Wilkes said, "Okay, I'm set up. Are you ready?"

Don cleared his throat. "Yeah."

Wilkes looked at him. "I'm going to use the same picture of Charlie that I used during your programming sessions. I want you to close your eyes and clear your mind, and when I tell you to open them, you'll see his picture projected on the wall across from you. Just look at it until I tell you to stop."

"Okay."

"Close your eyes."

Don closed his eyes and waited, his hands clenched.

"Open them."

He opened his eyes to find a familiar picture – the publicity shot they'd used of Charlie during his programming. He stared at it, taking in the smile, the intense dark eyes, until Wilkes said, "Okay, we're done."

The picture disappeared, and for a brief instant, Don had the urge to ask him to put it back up. After hours of staring at his brother, bruised, broken, and unconscious, the smiling image made him feel – what? he wondered. Nostalgic for life before all of this? How did he feel about Charlie now? The noise of a printer broke into his thoughts and he realized that he was about to find out.

Wilkes examined the printout, and Don tried hard to read his expression, to no avail. Wilkes could be as circumspect as Edgerton when he wished. After a second, Wilkes held the page out to him, face down, and Don stared at it. He was suddenly seized with a great reluctance to look at it. This would be his last reading, his last baseline. After this, he could still work on his deprogramming, but he would never again have the chance to know precisely how he felt, or if the deprogramming was helping. The only thing he would ever know for certain was how he had felt at this particular point in time. He reached out and took the printout, then folded in quarters without looking at it, and tucked it into the plastic sleeve with his original printout.

Wilkes looked at him quizzically. "You don't want to see it?"

Don shook his head. "Not now. I'll look at it later." He handed Wiles the plastic envelope, the string hanging in spirals from being twisted. "Can you hold it for me? They won't let me take this into surgery."

Wilkes was staring at him oddly, but he nodded, and took the printouts from him. "No problem. We can discuss the results later. I think Dr. Janovic would like to get going anyway. I'll go let them know you're ready."

Don nodded, and sat silently while Wilkes exited. He knew what he was afraid of – that after weeks of deprogramming sessions, and after days of being with and conversing with Charlie, which was deprogramming in itself - that he might have made no progress. If that were the case, he knew, then he would have stalled out, and he would probably not make any more progress no matter how many deprogramming sessions he went through. He was afraid that whatever that printout said, that was how he would view Charlie for the rest of their lives. If it did show progress, then it would give him hope, but if it didn't – maybe it was better not to look.

The door pushed open, and he looked up expecting to see Wilkes or an orderly, but instead Robin came through it, and he could see his father out in the hallway behind her. The door closed, and she moved forward and bent to kiss him. Her lips felt soft, warm, and for a brief moment, he had another brief flash of memory, of life before all of this. She straightened, and smiled at him. "Good luck," she said softly.

He smiled back, crookedly, the feeling of her lips still lingering on his. "Thanks. I guess I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Her smile deepened. "Without the excess hardware."

He grinned at her, just a little – God, it had seemed so long since he had smiled. Alan pushed through the door with a smile of his own on his face, but his eyes looked strange – as if he'd been crying. Don peered at him, trying to read him, but Alan's smile just deepened, as he stepped forward to squeeze his arm. "Good luck, son. We'll be waiting for you."

"Thanks, Dad," Don began, intending to ask him if he was all right, but the orderly was there to take him to the surgical prep area, and Alan stepped out the door. By the time the orderly got him out of the room, Alan was halfway down the hall. Robin gave him a wave and a smile, and Don relaxed, as the orderly turned and wheeled him the other way. If there was something wrong, he would have seen it in Robin's face also, he told himself. His father was probably simply exhausted. He took a deep breath. '_This is almost over_,' he told himself, and the words ran through his head like a mantra, all the way through the prep and the administration of the anesthesia, until they faded out with his consciousness.

* * *

Alan sat, gazing at Charlie, his eyes locked on his son's face. He'd come back up after seeing Don being taken into surgery, knowing there was nothing he could do for Don for the two hours it would take for them to remove the wiring from his head. Wilkes and Robin waited in the area outside the OR; they knew where to find him if he was needed. In the meantime, he knew he needed to spend whatever time he could with Charlie.

Charlie had gone from pale to flushed, and his breathing had quickened. From time to time he'd stiffen or stir weakly, but he never opened his eyes. Alan was praying for that, to see his son look him in the eye again, praying that Safak was wrong. "You fight it, Charlie," he whispered, fiercely. "Don's coming to see you tomorrow – you need to fight it."

A slight knock sounded on the door behind him, and his heart lurched as he turned to see Doctor Safak. He rose as the doctor motioned at him, and moved out into the hallway. He could see Amita moving toward them down the hallway, and Dr. Safak said quietly, "Perhaps she should hear this also. She is his fiancée?"

Alan wasn't about to pick at details at the moment, and he could barely speak, anyway, so he simply said, "Yes."

Safak motioned to Amita to join them and she did, with puzzled concern in her eyes, as Safak began to speak, addressing Alan.

"We have run several quick tests, and are running more, but I need to tell you that your son is suffering from a systemic infection, from a type of bacteria that is apparently resistant to antibiotics. We are trying to pinpoint what it is, exactly, so we can tailor treatment. I need to tell you, however, that this development is quite serious, considering his condition."

"How serious?' Alan's voice sounded strange, tight, reedy. Amita had turned pale, eyes wide and staring.

Safak hesitated. "It is difficult to tell. I am not telling you to give up hope, by any means, because we may find an antibiotic to combat this. You should know, however, that it increases the chances he will lose his leg, at minimum, and it could be life-threatening. Doctor Johanssen will make some other adjustments in his medications to help improve circulation and reduce swelling, and I will make an immediate change to a different antibiotic, and may make another change once our tests are complete. We will do everything we can, but perhaps you should notify those who wish to see him, to make plans to come tonight or tomorrow." He looked at Amita, whose face was beginning to crumple with tears, and patted her arm. "Have faith, little one. I have a feeling that he is a fighter."

He turned and walked away, and Alan gathered Amita into his arms as she dissolved into tears, sobbing helplessly against his jacket. His own eyes, strangely, were dry, burning from tears shed earlier, in the privacy of the men's room on the surgical floor. He'd known the truth then, even before Safak had told him. He'd felt it; an aura of death lurking around his son.

* * *

Don stirred, and blinked at the voice, the sound of a woman speaking to him. "Mr. Eppes, wake up now. Open your eyes. How do you feel?"

He felt groggy, out of it. "'Kay. Ssleepy."

"The anesthesia is wearing off. I want you to take some deep breaths for me. Are you comfortable?"

He blinked, taking an inventory. Actually, his arm hurt more than his head. "Hurts a little by my ear," he managed. The woman had been joined by Janovic; his face came into focus, and Don recognized his eyes over the mask.

Janovic nodded. "That's normal. That was the most difficult piece to remove – the auditory device. Still, the incision is small, and so are the ones on the top of your scalp. We didn't even have to remove much hair; in a couple of weeks, it will be hard to tell you had surgery. You're in recovery now – we'll move you to a room soon. Pain shouldn't much of an issue; your scalp may feel a little sore at the incision sites, but you shouldn't need anything stronger than what you're taking for your arm injury. Everything went as planned; we took a portable X-ray beforehand and also after we were done. When you get set up in your room, I'll come and show them to you."

Don still had a floating sensation that wasn't unpleasant, and it hampered his ability to tell how much time had really passed, but in what seemed like a short time, he was wheeled down to a room. Moments later, Robin was at the door, and stepped in with a smile. "Wow, that was fast," she said. "It only took a little over two hours. Your dad went up to see Charlie; he hasn't even come back down yet." She stepped forward and squeezed his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," he said. Almost too good – he couldn't quite believe that Janovic had done what he was supposed to do. As if in answer to his thoughts, Janovic appeared at the door, and behind him were Jonathan Wilkes and A.D. Wright. Robin moved toward the door, but Wilkes stopped her. "You can hear this, Ms. Brooks."

Wilkes looked at Don. "There has been a lot uncertainty throughout this whole ordeal, and I wanted you to have no doubt that you're back to normal. A.D. Wright had stopped by, and I asked him to witness the surgery with me, and the X-rays before and after, so there would be no question that the work was done." He looked at Janovic. "No offense intended."

"None taken," said Janovic affably. He held up an X-ray, and Robin moved next to Don's side to view it. "This is the 'before' shot of your collarbone area. You can clearly see the batteries and wiring, and on the right side you can see the damaged dampening device, attached just above the battery. Of course, we removed the one on the left side earlier." He held up another X-ray. "This is your head before surgery. You can see wiring leading up from the batteries under your skin and into the top of the skull, and the leads that were implanted in your brain. Over here, near your left ear, you can also see the auditory device." Don shot an apprehensive glance at Robin, expecting a look of … what? Distaste? Revulsion? Her face was composed; however, her gaze calm and intent.

Janovic held up two more X-rays. "These are the 'after' X-rays, taken just moments ago, under the scrutiny of Mr. Wright and Mr. Wilkes. As you can see, they are clear of any foreign wiring or devices. The surgery went well, with no complications." He glanced at Robin. "It would probably be good to give him a chance to rest for a bit."

Don looked up at her again, and he could see her beaming with relief. "Of course," she said, and she looked at him, steadily. "I'll be here; I called off for the rest of the afternoon. I'll stop in later, and I'll let your dad know you're out." With a squeeze of his arm, she walked out, and Janovic laid the X-rays on the table next to Don's bed. "You may want to look at these again. I believe Mr. Wilkes is going to file them away somewhere when you're done."

Wilkes was looking down at him with a smile, and he laid the clear plastic envelope with the printouts on top of the X-rays. "You might want to look at these, also," he said. "Welcome back, Don Eppes."

They were all smiling at him, and Don realized he was staring at them. "Thank you," he managed, and they Wright nodded at him as they turned and filed out of the room.

He sat there for a moment, trying to pinpoint the strange feelings inside of him. He felt adrift, unanchored – and he realized suddenly what a burden it had been, how horrible, crushing, terrifying it had been to know that at any moment, his mind was subject to another person's whims. He could feel the weight lifting – he was _free_, and as the enormity of it hit him, unexpected tears came, flowing down his face. He bent his head, shoulders shaking with silent sobs of relief. He was free…

He finally got hold of himself and ran a hand over his face, surprised at and a little abashed by the rush of emotion. He was entitled to it, he supposed, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had gained an ability to feel that he hadn't had before, or perhaps, hadn't recognized. He'd been so accustomed to burying his emotions, not analyzing them. He lay there for a moment, then turned his head and looked at the table. The clear plastic envelope with the printouts sat there on top of the X-rays, and he slowly reached out and picked it up, and just stared at it for a moment. '_You're going to have to look at it sometime_,' he told himself.

He carefully pulled out the two pieces of folded paper. Even if they hadn't been dated, it was easy to see which was which; the one from weeks ago was dog-eared and worn on the edges, the printout from earlier that day was still crisp. He opened the old one first and studied it for a moment, then picked up the new one, took a breath, and carefully unfolded it. A smile crept across his face and he leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as the smile broadened into a huge grin. A soft, incredulous laugh burst from him, and a few more tears of relief streaked the sides of his face.

"Wait until I show this to Charlie," he whispered to himself, still smiling. He shook his head slightly in amazement and laughed again, and then closed his eyes with a deep sigh. He fell asleep that way, still clutching the papers to his chest.

* * *

End Chapter 60


	61. Chapter 61

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 61**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews; you are very kind. _

* * *

Don didn't wake until they brought his breakfast tray. He'd slept through dinner and on through the night; the residual effects of the anesthesia, the painkillers, his injuries and exhaustion had finally caught up with him. His printouts had been neatly folded in half and laid on the table near him, and on top of them was a note from Robin, stating that she'd stayed until nine p.m., watching him sleep, and that she would be back the next day.

There was no sign of his father, and Don felt a twinge of uncertainty at his absence, but he imagined that Alan had been down to see him and Don had slept through his visits, too. The one overriding question in his mind was Charlie – he wondered how he was doing, wondered if he was awake yet – maybe even out of the ICU. He ate quickly; he was starving, but his speed was more due to a rising sense of disquiet, as if by dispatching his breakfast more quickly, he would get answers faster. He was nearly done when Alan appeared, accompanied by Jonathan Wilkes.

Don's face creased in a grin, but it faded as he saw Alan's face. His father looked terrible, exhausted and careworn. Don could feel something cold creep down his spine. "Dad – did you get any sleep last night?"

Alan hesitated and glanced at Wilkes, who looked somber. Don felt his heart rate start to accelerate. "How's Charlie?"

Alan cleared his throat and looked at Don, his face haggard. "Not good, Donnie. He – he's got an infection. They're trying to fight it -," his voice cracked, and he paused for a second. "They gave him a stronger antibiotic yesterday, but so far, we haven't seen any results. They have one more to try, but they wanted to give him a full day on this one, because after the next one, there is nothing else."

Don stared at him. Did his father just say 'nothing else'? "Is he … is he awake?"

"He opens his eyes sometimes, but he's not focusing, and he says a few words, but he's not making any sense – he's delirious. Sometimes I think he can hear us, and sometimes I'm not sure."

Don felt an odd sensation, as if he were hanging over the edge of a cliff. "Where is the infection – in his leg or the surgery site?"

Alan ran a hand over his face, swaying slightly on his feet, and Wilkes put a hand on his arm to steady him, and picked up the conversation. "It's in his bloodstream. They think he might have been carrying a resistant bug since his first hospital stay. Alan and I talked to Charlie's doctor, and to yours. If you're up for it, they're okay with you seeing him, as long as you wear an extra hospital gown and gloves, and are transported in a wheelchair. They don't believe his infection is transmissible by contact, but considering your recent surgery, they want to take precautions."

Don could feel his breakfast trying to climb back up his throat. "How serious is this?" His voice rose as he spoke, and he could hear threads of panic in it.

Neither of them replied for a moment, but Don could see the answer in their eyes. Wilkes glanced at Alan; then finally spoke again. "They want family members to see him today, if they can," he said, "just in case."

* * *

Don rode up in a wheelchair, staring blankly at the floor, the plastic envelope with the printouts back around his neck under the layered gowns, like a talisman. The euphoria of the evening before had been obliterated; the printouts themselves would mean nothing if Charlie… He stopped himself. He couldn't think that way; he refused to think it. It wasn't as if they'd tried everything; they still had another medication up their sleeve.

His heart dropped, his resolution wavered, as soon as they maneuvered him inside the room. Charlie looked terrible; his face flushed but dry, covered with stubble, his hair matted. His eyes were closed, but he was moving his head slightly side to side; in fact, his entire body was shifting about weakly as if trying to thrash. In spite of his weakness, they'd bound his hands to the bed rails with soft restraints to keep him from dislodging his IVs. Ice packs lay around his legs and along his sides; a disturbing testimony to how high his fever was running. Don could hear the footsteps of the orderly receding behind him, and then the squeak of rubber soles approaching but he didn't turn; he stared at Charlie, transfixed.

"He keeps trying to pull off his oxygen mask, and yank on his IV," said a quiet voice behind him, and Don twisted in his seat, to see Larry standing behind him, his intelligent blue eyes dulled with pain and fatigue. "He'll lie quietly for a while; then he'll become agitated. It's very difficult to watch. Amita and your father were here all night with him; I finally took her home to sleep for a few hours. The doctors tell us part of his disorientation is delirium from fever, and part of it is from the heavy pain medication. They just put him on an analgesic that is not quite as strong; the other was quite a depressant, and slowed his breathing and circulation. They are trying to improve the circulation; the delivery of oxygen to his leg."

Don turned his head back to look at Charlie. Bound like that, his leg immobilized, pulling against his restraints, he looked as though he was in a kind of medieval torture device. He muttered and his eyes flickered open; glazed slits of pain – the pupils darting back and forth. Don caught his breath. "Charlie."

Charlie blinked and froze for just a moment; then his eyes drifted shut again and he seemed to drop back into sleep, although Don could see his chest rising and falling too fast, with rapid, shallow breaths. The fever was consuming him, and there wasn't much of him to begin with. Don could feel dread creeping around his heart. "Push me a little closer," he urged Larry, who complied.

He sat silently for a moment, just looking at him; he heard Larry murmur something about tea, and then there was the soft squeak of rubber soles as the professor left the room. It was disturbing to know that they'd all been there keeping vigil, all night, all that morning, while Don slept. Why hadn't they woken him – and when had they found out that Charlie's condition was so serious? At the same moment he thought that, he knew. He remembered his father yesterday, when he walked in just before Don's surgery, his eyes had been watery, red-rimmed. Alan had known then and said nothing.

"Damn it, Dad_,_" he growled softly, but he understood why his father had done it – he wanted Don to proceed with his surgery. It gave Don a glimmer of hope, and he tried to shake off the fear. Things couldn't be that serious, if they allowed him to wait until today to see him. Plus, they had another round of antibiotic to try. Charlie was going to pull through this – he _had _to pull through this. The infection he was fighting apparently dated back to the stabbing, and if it killed him, it meant that Don was responsible, after all…

He couldn't get his mind around that one. Instead, he just stared at Charlie, absently fingering the plastic envelope around his neck through his layers of gown, swallowing fear. He'd been thrilled at the results of his session with Wilkes, but they now meant little. What had he been so excited about anyway, he asked himself morosely? The fact that his new printout matched the old one? The fact that after all this, they were right back where they started? Well, a little improved; the bar over love was higher, but there were still the others, indicating a trace of dislike, and envy. He knew what he felt; the bottom line was, he still didn't know _why_ he felt the way he did about Charlie.

He let his mind wander back as far as it could reach, as he thought about the bars on his printouts. Envy was probably there from the start, the usual envy one sibling feels for another. That normally would have lessened, maybe disappeared, and probably even did when they were very young, but the discovery of Charlie's genius might have caused it to resurface. He frowned. He didn't think he had been jealous of Charlie's capabilities – more than likely, if anything, he had been jealous of the attention they got him. Attention from his parents, attention from every adult, for that matter, who encountered him. Charlie had been a freak of nature, a force of nature – strike that, there was nothing natural about him. His mind was nothing short of phenomenal – how did one compete with that? It made Don wonder what their relationship would have been like, if Charlie had been normal – if his genius hadn't been in the way.

Charlie moaned softly, and Don's eyes darted back over to him. Charlie didn't look phenomenal now – he looked weak, fragile, in pain – too young to die, too young to suffer like this. He looked like his little brother - in his face, Don could see the maddening, frustrating, exuberant little boy that Don had loved when he was young – the competitor of his high school years – the brilliant stranger of their early adulthood - the collaborator and coworker of their recent years, partners in an uneasy truce, participants in a tentative friendship. As little as Don still understood him, he realized now that he loved him just as much as when they were children – he didn't need to understand their relationship to know that. The printout might not show progress, but Don knew he'd made a significant discovery, something he hadn't known for certain before all of this started – he loved his brother, in spite of all the walls between them, in spite of all the baggage they carried.

He reached out and touched Charlie's hand; the gesture was awkward considering the fact that his brother's hand was tied to the bedrail, and Don's own hand was in a glove. "Charlie, please," he pleaded softly. "You can't go now. You need to fight this."

Charlie's head turned at the sound of his voice, but his eyes didn't open; instead, his brows drew up and in, as an expression of fear crept across his face. "Please," he moaned softly, at first Don thought he was mimicking him. He realized in the next instant he couldn't have been more wrong as Charlie implored, "Please, no…don't …," He twisted in the bed, pulling at the restraints.

Don fought down rising nausea; he could only imagine what nightmarish visions populated Charlie's semi-conscious state. "Charlie, it's okay," he said softly, his own voice filled with a plea. _It's okay, God please, let it be okay. Please let him live; please don't let it be me in his dreams…_

He could hear footsteps behind him, but he ignored them. "Charlie, listen to me – you're okay. Relax-," Charlie was growing more agitated, twisting; arching his back.

"No!" He rasped. His breath was ragged, harsh.

Wilkes' voice came from behind Don, regretful, but firm. "Don, you should probably go."

"No." Don could hear his voice shake. "I just got here – I'm not leaving."

"Please stop… " Charlie begged. His eyes had flickered open, but were focused on nothing in the room; his face was contorted with fear.

"Charlie-," Don spoke firmly, fighting to keep his voice calm. _Not me; he's not talking about me…_

"Donnie." Now his father's voice came from behind him; pain-filled.

"Don, come on." Wilkes commanded, his voice growing firmer. Don felt hands on his wheelchair, starting to exert force, and he leaned forward, beginning to rise. If Wilkes wanted to take his wheelchair, he could – Don intended to stay.

"Please stop, I'm sorry -," Charlie was half-frantic, thrashing side-to-side with his eyes closed, tears coming down his face, and Don made it partway to his feet, intent on comforting him, on making it _stop_, when the words came that were like a knife to his heart. "God, Don, no, please…"

Don froze; standing on unsteady legs in front of his wheelchair, then slowly sank into it, staring at Charlie. He sat there, not moving, his shoulders slumped, and Wilkes turned the chair and started to push it out of the room. As Wilkes turned him to face Alan, Don didn't look at his father; he simply stared dully ahead, not bothering to hide the heartbreak in his eyes.

* * *

Twisted visions…garbled voices… Charlie's subconscious teemed with them, flitting in-and-out; now close, now far away. They'd been distant at first, sounds too faint to recognize, buried by the heavy painkillers, sights made non-existent by closed lids. He didn't know or understand that they had changed his pain medication to something less potent in order to improve his breathing and circulation; all he knew was that the sounds began to grow louder, and as his eyes began to flicker open, sights appeared. His ears and eyes were functioning, but the pathways to his brain were not – they were warped by fever and the medication. Faces were there, and then they were not – his father, Amita, Larry, Colby, David, Wilkes – the actual faces fought for recognition among the images in his fevered dreams. He wasn't sure which of them were real and which weren't; he wasn't coherent enough to make the distinction. One face, above all, was with him – Don.

His face was the most confusing; sometimes smiling, sometimes transformed with rage. Don's visage ran through the settings of his dreams – following him upstairs to his bedroom, sitting with him in the living room, chasing him through gray mist. Charlie felt uneasy whenever the face appeared, even when it wore a smile, and unreasonable terror would shoot through him when the expression was angry. Invariably, he'd run, up the stairs, out the front door, through the trees, and no matter where he went, Don would be behind him, calling his name. Behind Don, another face would lurk in the shadows, the man from New Orleans, watching, waiting.

In spite of the fear, however, there was a sense of yearning, a pull toward his brother - a sense of sadness, of guilt, of love. And when Don smiled, as uneasy as he was, Charlie wanted to go to him, instead of running…

Through it all was the pain. It was reduced by the new painkillers, but not vanquished, and there was a constant, mind-bending agony that started in his left hip and lower abdomen, and culminated in the torture that was his left leg. He shifted and turned, trying to escape it, to escape his pursuers, but his left leg was too heavy to move and the branches grabbed at his hands…He writhed, desperate for release. '_God, please, someone help me…_'

* * *

Alan and Amita stood, staring through the ICU doorway as the doctors consulted. They already had the latest vital signs; in spite of the pain medication and ice packs, Charlie's temperature was up, along with his respiration rate. Alan couldn't imagine anyone more pleasant or less intimidating than Doctor Safak, but he was beginning to hate the sight of trim tiny man, because with him invariably came bad news. He stiffened as Safak turned and came toward them now, his slight form exuding politeness and apology. Beside him, he could hear Amita take in a deep breath, and let it out slowly, unsteadily.

"I'm afraid we are not seeing results with this antibiotic." Safak's voice was gentle, but he came straight to the point. "I am going to go ahead and start him on one more. The good news is the circulation seems slightly improved to his leg. He is losing strength, I fear, however; and he will need it yet, while we apply this last type of medication. I know it seems that he doesn't understand you, but he can hear you, and if he can process any of what you say it may help him. Stay with him, speak to him; encourage him, even if it seems he does not comprehend." He reached out and patted Amita on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture, as he saw her eyes brim with tears. "Have faith, little one, fight with him. This is not over."

She choked back tears and nodded. Alan put his arm around her and she leaned against him as Safak turned down the hall, and the remaining doctors filed out of the room, their faces somber.

* * *

End Chapter 61


	62. Chapter 62

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 62**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all__. _

* * *

Late that afternoon, Don sat silently in his hospital bed, upright, leaning against it for support; he didn't feel like reclining it and lying down. He didn't feel like sitting there either, for that matter – he wanted to jump up, run upstairs, do something. Instead, he just sat in his room while Charlie lay dying, unable to be with him, because his very presence seemed to torture his brother.

His peripheral vision caught movement, and Robin stepped into the room. She had a slight smile on her face, but it was sad and anxious, and he realized that she knew about Charlie's condition. Everyone had known but him, apparently. Everyone but the knife-wielding monster who'd cut him those weeks ago, and set him up for the infection that was claiming his life. He'd assumed that his father hadn't told him about Charlie's condition because he wanted him to go through with his surgery, but maybe it was because Alan didn't want him there. Maybe he blamed him – maybe his father would hate him for this. It would be perfectly understandable – Don hated himself.

"How are you feeling?" Robin asked him gently, and he shrugged.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Her smile twisted ruefully. "I stopped upstairs – your father said you'd been up to see him."

"For a little while." Don couldn't keep the pain, the bitterness out of his face. "He heard my voice and started to freak out. They chased me out of there."

Robin frowned, and her eyes flashed. "He's been delirious since yesterday. How do they know it was your voice that triggered his response? And even if it was, you have a right to be there."

Don shook his head. "You didn't see him. Why would I put him through that?"

"Because he listens to you, he always has. You need to spend some time with him, Don – if the worst happens, you'll regret it if you don't. And you may be able to get him through this. No matter what he feels or remembers when he hears your voice, he has a tendency to do what you ask him."

Don grimaced. "Yeah, like he listened to me when he took this assignment. I told him it was a bad idea, and he decided to do it anyway."

Her voice softened persuasively. "And how much of his rationale for taking it was trying to impress you, or maybe just spend time on something with you – on something really significant? You told him it was a bad idea – did you ever tell him specifically not to go?"

"I didn't order him not to, if that's what you mean," replied Don wearily. "It wasn't my place to do that."

"You order him around enough when it comes to your cases," Robin said wryly.

"That's because they're my cases, and he's a team member when he's working on them."

"But he's still your brother; he could tell you to stuff it, but he doesn't. Have you ever stopped to think about that?" she asked gently. "He may be stubborn, and he may not follow your direction all the time, but I'm telling you, he listens to you when you ask him to do something. You hold more power over him than you think – and I think you should use that, here. Get up there and talk to him, _order_ him to fight. Be there with him."

Don said nothing, just shook his head.

Her voice rose. "Since when do you give up so easily? Is that what you really want - to sit here and not try?" She waited for a moment, but he didn't reply, and a look of disappointment settled on her face. "Fine, if that's what you want to do." She turned and began to walk toward the door.

"Wait." She stopped and turned to face him and Don looked at her, his expression filled with doubt, but he said, "Get the nurse to have an orderly bring my wheelchair."

* * *

Alan raised his head wearily at the movement in the hallway, and stared as Don came rolling through the doorway propelled by an orderly, with Robin behind them. Earlier, Wilkes had convinced him that it wasn't good for Don to be there – that it was hard on both of them – frightening for Charlie and painful for Don. Alan had felt doubt, deep inside; he'd wondered if Don should have stayed, no matter how difficult it was, but he'd grown to trust Wilkes, and his own exhaustion had made it hard to think. When Don had gone, apparently willingly, Alan had let it be. Now, however, Don was back, and Alan knew well the look in his eyes – a look of stubbornness that both his boys shared – a look that dared one to try to convince them to change their minds. Inside, a part of him was relieved that Don was back, and was apparently there prepared to fight, just when Alan, Amita and Larry had begun to flag, to give up hope.

Charlie's condition had deteriorated just a bit more, until they put him on the new antibiotic, then it had stabilized. Stable wasn't necessarily good, however – his fever was still too high, the infection still present. Charlie was losing strength by the hour. What they needed was improvement. They'd looked for it, hopefully at first, but as the day had worn on, doubt had regained a foothold. Was this finally the beginning of recovery, or just a brief respite before this medication failed, also? The very fact that the ICU staff were allowing multiple visitors in the room indicated that they seemed to think that this was the end. By late afternoon, Alan, Amita and Larry had been reduced to sitting in a silent fog of despair and exhaustion, their hopes waning.

Don's gaze roved over them as he was wheeled into the room, but he didn't address them; instead, he asked the orderly to push him next to Charlie's bedside. Not asked – commanded – in spite of his hospital gown and the wheelchair, Don had swept into the room looking every bit the agent on a mission. At Charlie's bedside, he immediately undid the nearest restraint, and grasped Charlie's slack hand firmly. In spite of his decisive movements, his voice was gentle. "Hey, Charlie. How are you doing, buddy?"

Charlie stirred just a bit, but didn't open his eyes. That didn't deter Don, he kept talking, a constant stream of conversation in a low voice – regurgitating thoughts, feelings, memories of past cases, family stories, without regard for anyone else in the room – he was focused entirely on Charlie. Amita, Larry and Robin stayed for a bit, but after a few moments, each of them found an excuse to leave the Eppes men in privacy. Alan sat and listened; he could hear desperation and determination mingled in Don's voice.

" ... Charlie, look at me. Just open your eyes; I know you can. You've slept long enough. Listen, I've got a case for you – I need you to look at it for me. I could really use your help."

Charlie lay there, his expressions fluctuating slightly, but disappointingly unresponsive. Alan knew what Don was trying to do – he knew that Charlie rarely said no to him, especially when he needed his help, and this was a last, desperate effort to get Charlie to respond. It was heartbreaking, and suddenly something inside Alan simply cracked. Don's attempt to pull some reaction from his brother was so touching, yet so doomed, that it nearly broke Alan's heart. He couldn't take any more. He rose on shaking legs, tears starting to his eyes. "I'll be back," he said, in a voice made gruff by choking grief, and he tottered out the door.

* * *

Charlie could feel himself floating. It was quiet now, only the occasional murmur registering in his brain, soft voices that he recognized, vaguely. He was floating, sinking, the lurid dreams receding as he descended into grayness, he was so tired…

Then another voice came, louder, but kind; gentle, yet demanding. He stirred uncomfortably – why didn't they just let him sleep? The new voice wouldn't, however – it kept talking, picking away at the grayness, making him hear again. At first, it didn't register as anything other than a noise that kept him from sleep, but as an hour passed, then two, words started to assert themselves – real words, with meanings, and then phrases. The voice had grown hoarse and tired, but it still kept on, along with the firm grip on his hand, a grip that pulled him back, out of the grayness.

He wasn't quite sure when he realized that it was Don who was speaking, and he had the sense that he should be afraid, but somehow wasn't. This was Don, his brother, with the firm grip and the firmer tone, Don – his voice by turns commanding, wheedling, pleading – sometimes resolute, sometimes cracking with emotion, but always Don. Not undercover Don, not a crazed murderer with a knife - just his brother - and as he heard the words, "I love you, buddy," Charlie felt a tear streak down the side of his face. He blinked, and with a tremendous effort, opened his eyes.

Don was staring at him, looking as if he were holding his breath, and Charlie gazed back at him through half-open eyes, trying to summon the strength to speak, even though the chances of his words being heard under the oxygen mask were slim. It was too much, too difficult to keep his eyes open. He could only hope that Don had read the meaning in them before they closed.

He drifted off again, not into the grayness, but into a restful sleep.

* * *

Don sat, finally silent, his head bowed, still holding Charlie's hand. He'd talked for hours; he wasn't quite sure where all of it came from, but the words had spilled out automatically. Once he started talking, he was taken with the unreasonable idea that he wouldn't stop until Charlie opened his eyes and acknowledged him, until his brother realized that Don was there for him, and that he wasn't going anywhere until he knew that Charlie was safe, beginning to recover. He was aware of others, coming and going; checking Charlie's vital signs. His father, Amita, Wilkes, Larry, and some visitors he probably wasn't cognizant of stepped into the room or watched from the doorway. He didn't care; he shut them all out, and just concentrated on Charlie. After a while, it seemed that it was working, that he was getting through, and as the afternoon wore on, Charlie's respiration and temperature slowly began to improve. It was probably the antibiotic, Don knew, but he couldn't help but hope that maybe his presence had something to do with it. The decisive moment finally arrived late in the afternoon. Charlie opened his eyes and looked straight at him, and Don held his breath, hoping for some sign that there was a chance that their relationship was still salvageable, for some sign that Charlie might accept him again. Instead, he got something that twisted his heart with disappointment – a single tear; then Charlie closed his eyes again.

He was resting now, improving, hopefully on the road to recovery physically, but Don feared the worst, mentally and emotionally – the dread that their relationship would be forever damaged by what had happened – that Charlie would never look at him again without seeing a monster.

He heard slow shuffling footsteps, and Alan sank into a chair next to him, tears of relief glittering in his eyes. "Dr. Safak thinks he's turning the corner," he said. His hands were shaking; he looked about to drop – very similar to how Don felt, now that he thought about it. Alan looked at him with concern. "You should get back to bed, Donnie – you were with him during the worst of it; and you need to rest, too." His eyes searched Don's face, and puzzlement was added to his expression. "What's wrong?"

Don looked at him, then back down at his lap and shook his head. "Nothing," he replied softly. "I'm just tired."

An orderly came in a few moments later to wheel him back to his room, and he stared at his lap all the way there, still seeing that single tear trace a shining trail down his brother's cheek.

* * *

End Chapter 62

_A/N: I've pulled Charlie back from the brink of death, or rather, Don has, but the brothers are far from out of danger. At least I didn't leave you with too much of a cliffie. Have a great week! _


	63. Chapter 63

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 63**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

* * *

Two weeks later, Jonathan Wilkes stepped up next to the figure standing near the doorway of Charlie Eppes' hospital room.

A week and a half prior, once Charlie had stabilized; Wilkes had gone back to New Orleans to participate in the ongoing investigation at Cypress Institute. In addition to agents combing the site, searching for institute personnel who might recognize J. Scott Marsh from his picture, a quiet CIA internal investigation had been looking into the doings directed by Dr. Allman. Director Conaghan had ordered a cease to all covert mind programming activities in the wake of what had happened to Don Eppes, stating that the activity was 'counter to U.S. principles,' and had the potential to be a danger to the country's security. Going forward, the institute's government-funded resources were to be concentrated on trying to find cures for paralysis and for mind control of artificial limbs, primarily for the benefit of returning war veterans. A private psychiatric ward was also being set up, to aid CIA personnel suffering from mental illness, breakdowns, or post-traumatic stress – a place where they would be allowed to discuss highly sensitive material. Jonathan Wilkes, on recommendation from Conaghan, was to head up that section of the hospital.

Wilkes returned to L.A. two weeks later to complete unfinished business, and his first stop was UCLA Medical Center, and the hospital room of Charlie Eppes. As he moved down the hallway to stand next to Don Eppes, he took the opportunity to scrutinize him before making his presence known. As always, Eppes was hard to read, his face expressionless as he stood in the doorway of his brother's room. There was still a guard on the doorway, but he had moved to a discreet distance down the hall. It was a regular hospital room; Charlie had been improved enough to be moved there over a week ago, and as Wilkes got to the doorway he looked inside. Charlie Eppes was sitting up in bed; he looked weak and horribly thin, but he was alert and talking with his father and girlfriend. Considering the fact that he had been at death's door, it was a remarkable improvement.

"Why don't you go in?" he asked, and Don's head turned in surprise as he came out of what appeared to be an attention-consuming reverie.

Don shrugged, an uncomfortable one-shouldered gesture, and shot a quick wary look into the room. He obviously had been trying to remain undetected. The motion by the doorway had caught Charlie's attention, and he looked toward them. Don took a step back and turned toward Wilkes as if to continue their conversation, but Wilkes suspected it was just a reason for him to avoid making eye contact with Charlie. Charlie, for his part, gazed for a moment, then, as Don turned away, disappointment flitted briefly over his face before he turned back to his visitors.

Wilkes eyed Don quizzically. "So why aren't you in there?"

"I just stopped by for a minute to see how he's doing." Don shot the phrase over his shoulder as he turned away. It was cryptic and didn't answer the question, and Don knew it, but he kept moving down the hall. "Got to get back to the office."

"I'll call you later," Wilkes called out to his retreating back. "I'd like to schedule an appointment with you."

Don half-turned his head and gave a distracted nod, and disappeared around the corner.

Wilkes frowned after him; then turned toward the doorway again, as Alan Eppes stepped out of it, his hand extended. "Agent Wilkes," he said. He was smiling, but looked weary, careworn. "Good to see you again."

"Jon, please," said Wilkes. "How are you, Alan? How's Charlie?"

"Getting there," replied Alan. "Last week was pretty rough; he was in a lot of pain. This week was a bit better. The repairs to his intestine are healing; he's off clear liquids – he's still on a liquid diet, but he's been able to take some fluids with more substance to them, nutrition drinks, and so forth. It's made a big difference in his strength. They'll try him on soft food tomorrow, and if that goes well, they might even release him in a day or so."

Wilkes' eyes trailed to the frail figure in the bed. "He doesn't look strong enough to handle crutches."

Alan shook his head. "He's not, yet, although they said they'd send some home with him. He'll be in wheelchair for a while; they're going to schedule him for physical therapy, build up his strength again. Even once he gets out of the wheelchair, he's going to be on crutches for a long time, I'm afraid; he needs to go through surgery on his leg yet. They're going to give him another three weeks to get some of his strength back before they attempt that."

Wilkes nodded, his brows knitted. "He'll get full function back?"

Alan's face clouded. "They think so, although they're quick to point out there are no guarantees. He'll walk again, there's no doubt of that. He may limp, however, or face chronic pain. We just have to hope for the best, there."

"And how's Don?"

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Physically, or mentally?"

"Both."

"Physically, he's fine. He had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Janovic two days ago – I went along. Janovic did an MRI and ran a battery of tests, and declared him healed enough for everyday activity – Don's even been going in to the office the past couple of days."

Wilkes nodded. "We've noticed no ill physical side effects at all in previous recipients of the programming. In fact, we've noticed one positive one – a slight improvement in reaction time. We're not sure why, but I would guess it might be the only lasting physical effect that Don would experience."

Alan nodded, and Wilkes could see a flicker of relief in his eyes. "He's not released yet for field duty – the profile you did with him was submitted, and he passes the mental and cognitive requirements, but Janovic won't sign the physical release for another two weeks yet – says he needs to be fully healed before he'll do that. Mentally and emotionally…" Alan hesitated. "I think they both have some issues."

Wilkes pursed his lips. Truthfully, he was not surprised, but he wanted to hear Alan's assessment. "How so?"

Alan sighed. "They don't – interact – much, and neither one wants to talk about it. It's really hard to tell what is on their minds. Don asks about Charlie often, and he'll stop by like he did just now, but he'll rarely go in to see him, and if he does, it's only when there's a crowd in the room. I think he's afraid that he'll disturb Charlie, make him upset."

"And Charlie?"

Alan turned his head to regard his son. "I'm not sure," he said softly. "He still struggles with nightmares; I think he's still fighting PTSD. On the rare occasions that he catches a glimpse of Don, he gets this, this - _look_ - on his face. I'm not sure if it's fear, or hope."

Wilkes followed his gaze. "Or both," he said softly. He looked at Alan. "Director Conaghan gave me direction to come back out here and offer therapy sessions to each of them. I'm one of the few psychiatrists who has clearance to discuss what happened to them. I'd like to schedule a few sessions them, individually. Maybe even a joint session or two, once they're ready for it."

Alan's face cleared. "That would be wonderful. They need something to get them over this impasse, to get them talking again."

Wilkes nodded. "I'd actually like to start with Charlie, if he's ready."

Alan considered his son, his face softening as he watched Amita take Charlie's hand, gently intertwining her fingers with his. "He still gets tired pretty easily – if you want to start today, I'd do it now. He has a few good hours, usually, but by later on, he'll be wiped out." He looked at Wilkes. "He can be pretty introspective and fairly stubborn, as I think you know. If I were you, if you really want him to talk, I wouldn't give him an option."

"I'm not," said Wilkes firmly. "I'm on record as a treating physician; I can make completing a psychiatric profile part of his release requirements. In other words, he won't get out of here until he talks to me."

A moment later, he was nodding politely at Amita Ramanujan, who perceptively took her cue to leave and headed out the door with Alan, murmuring that she had to get to class. Wilkes watched Charlie's eyes trail her as she walked out, trying to read the expression on his face. "So, how are you doing, Charlie?"

Charlie lifted his gaze to Wilkes and leaned back against the upright back of his bed, the hospital gown too large on his thin frame. "Okay," he responded quietly. His expression was calm, but guarded.

Wilkes pulled up a chair, and sat, his posture relaxed, as if for an informal chat. "I've been asked by Director Conaghan to spend some time with you and your brother in some therapy sessions. Your sessions will count toward meeting your requirements for release from the hospital."

Charlie frowned. "I wasn't aware that I had to pass a psychiatric evaluation."

Wilkes looked at him impassively, and stretched the truth a little. "It's routine after such a traumatic event, and considering your PTSD symptoms prior to this latest attack, I think it's advisable. We can do a session right now, if you're up for it."

Charlie shrugged and nodded, although he looked less than enthusiastic.

"Your dad says you're still having nightmares."

Another shrug; and Charlie looked away. "Yeah."

"About Don?"

Charlie kept his eyes averted. "Sometimes."

He looked back at Wilkes as if to challenge his own admission. "They're getting better."

"How so?"

Charlie sighed. "Why does it matter? They'll gradually go away, right?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. You know what happened when you tried to avoid dealing with this before – you started having flashbacks. Don't you think it's better to deal with it, and make sure?"

Charlie stared at him for a moment; then shifted uncomfortably. "I was having dreams that Don was chasing me – I still am, but the tone has changed," he admitted in a low voice. "The dreams before were sometimes benign, but were often violent. Over the past week or so, they've started to change. Often, Don is still chasing me, but he's not the aggressor any more."

"Who is?"

"Marsh. As of the last few days, if I have a nightmare, Marsh is the one who is the threat. Don is present, but he never - hurts me - in the dream." He flushed a little as he spoke.

Wilkes studied him. "You're uncomfortable with talking about this."

Charlie glanced at him a bit sheepishly, rubbed his cheek and looked at the ceiling, obviously flustered. "I just – I'm not sure I believe in analyzing dreams. When you say it aloud, it sounds so - illogical. Puerile."

Wilkes lifted a corner of his lip, wryly. "Trust me, it's not. Of course, dreams are not the only thing we should be discussing, but they're a good start. So in your dreams, you've transitioned the role of the aggressor to Marsh – I'd say that's logical. Does that mean you're not afraid of Don anymore?"

Charlie hesitated briefly. "No – I don't think I am. At least not when he's not here. Immediately after the attack, just the thought of him scared me – I didn't want to admit that, but it was true. Now, that's not true anymore."

Wilkes' eyes narrowed. "And how about when he _is _present? What do you feel when you see him?"

Charlie grimaced slightly. "I don't know. I feel a quick flash of something – discomfort, maybe, or anxiety - but it disappears right away." He sighed. "I'm not even sure it's related to the attack."

"What would it be related to?"

Charlie's expression was tinged with regret. "Maybe to the fact that he obviously doesn't want to be here – to the fact that I've screwed up any chance we've ever had at becoming closer. He went through hell, and it was my fault. I don't think he can even look at me anymore without revisiting what happened."

"It was your fault." Wilkes raised an eyebrow. "How?"

Charlie looked at him as if he were dense. "I told you before; I was the one who insisted on taking the assignment. I told him he didn't need to go along, but he'd made it clear that if I took it, he was going, too. I knew that, and I took it anyway."

Wilkes pursed his lips, thoughtfully. "That brings up a very good question. Why did you take the assignment?"

The question seemed to catch Charlie off guard; he simply stared back for a moment, and silence fell.

* * *

Pinning down Don Eppes turned out to be a much tougher proposition, Wilkes found, to his surprise. After all the sessions they'd already held and the results of Don's last printout, he would have expected that Don would be comfortable with sitting down and talking. Instead, the agent kept putting him off. Two more days came and went; Wilkes had another session with Charlie. The professor did seem to be making progress, but he was mired in a morass of guilt and regret – a situation that could best be resolved by a heart-to-heart talk with his brother, which was something that both of them seemed to be avoiding. Finally, Sunday rolled around, the day of Charlie's release, and Wilkes still hadn't successfully scheduled a session with Don.

The agent showed up at the hospital to help. Charlie was still too weak to navigate very far on crutches, and the release nurse instructed Don and Alan how to get him into and out of his wheelchair, by having Charlie put one arm around each of their shoulders. He then supported his weight on his good leg, with a step-swing maneuver that got him from the bed to the chair. The cast on his leg looked enormous and cumbersome; and made Wilkes wonder how they had gotten him dressed, even though the nylon track pants he wore were baggy, and snapped up the sides. He didn't let the logistics of the move deter him from observing them, however, from watching as they made physical contact, as Charlie put his arm around Don's shoulders, and Don put his arm around Charlie's rib cage to support him. There was no reaction discernable on either part; they both kept their faces carefully neutral.

Wheelchair to car, then car to wheelchair at the Craftsman, then wheelchair to the front stoop. At that point, Charlie already looked tired. They had been greeted at the house by Amita Ramanujan, Larry Fleinhardt, and agents Sinclair and Granger, and this time, Colby and David stepped in to support Charlie to get him over the stoop and into the house from the wheelchair. It was a slow and awkward process, and by the time they had deposited Charlie on the sofa, he looked spent. Don carried the collapsible wheelchair inside, and Alan bustled out to the kitchen to get iced tea for the group. Wilkes followed him in, catching a sigh as he pushed through the door.

"Problem?" he asked quietly, and Alan glanced at him over his shoulder, then shook his head.

"No – what I mean is, it's great that he's home, but I was wondering how this is going to work, long term. I'm setting up a bed for him downstairs, and there is a bathroom on this floor, but the shower is upstairs." He smiled. "Small worries, in the big scheme of things."

"It will give you a good excuse to have Don come over and help," replied Wilkes.

Alan read the meaning in his eyes. "That it will," he agreed. "Have you had any luck getting him to sit down and talk?"

"We're scheduled for tomorrow evening after work; hopefully he'll keep the appointment."

* * *

Don did, although reluctantly. For lack of an office, they met at Don's apartment; it had been swept for bugs and the remaining camera removed, and it was as secure a place as any for a conversation. Wilkes took in the surroundings with mild curiosity. He had seen shots of it on the video feeds back at Cypress Institute, but he hadn't been inside yet. It was definitely the bachelor pad; comfortable furniture in neutral colors in the living room, a utilitarian kitchen. A doorway off the living area led to what Wilkes presumed was the bedroom and bathroom. All of it neat, orderly, comfortable but no-frills. It wasn't monastic, but it did speak of self-discipline, and didn't tell one much about its owner. Like Don Eppes himself, his living quarters didn't give one much access to his mind.

Wilkes sat in an armchair when Don offered him a seat, leaving the sofa to the agent. Don flung himself into it with studied casualness, and slumped against the back. No offer of water or coffee – he obviously wanted to make this session as short as possible.

Wilkes started out with a neutral observation. "I hear Charlie goes to ID Marsh on Thursday."

Don nodded. "They're setting up a standard line-up. I heard from Masters that Charlie actually saw Marsh's face in the park; Marsh had apparently pulled up his ski mask and talked to Charlie before I found them. It nails Marsh down as the man in the mask, and of course, Charlie can also put him at the Montreaux estate."

Wilkes smiled agreeably, and purposefully delivered a comment intended to provoke. "That's great news for the prosecution. Of course, if you ever talked to your brother, he might have told you that himself."

Don scowled furiously and looked away. "I'm trying to give him some space. He's still healing; he doesn't need to deal with me right now. I'm the last person he wants to talk to about what happened out there – it's got to be tough enough for him to cope with it, without -"

"Without what?"

Don's voice and eyes dropped, but he kept the scowl. "Without me."

"And why do you say that?"

Don looked up, his eyes flashing with anger and pain. "What, you need to ask? He's still having nightmares - I heard him call my name out in the hospital, and the way he looks at me – well let's face it, he's never gonna look at me the same way again."

Wilkes pursed his lips, considering. "You're saying that like it's a bad thing."

Don sent him an incredulous look. "Of course it's a bad thing. He looks upset every time he sees me."

Wilkes sighed. "Look, I'm not saying that he doesn't have some things to deal with – he does. But he is handling them remarkably well, considering, and he's stronger emotionally than you think. I've been talking to him, and I think he's more than ready to talk to you. In fact, I think if you two are ever going to get over this, you need to start talking, spend some time together. And I mean really talking – not about work, or the game on television – something more than the mundane discourse you've had for most of your adult lives. You may be surprised at the result."

Don's lips tightened and he shook his head. "And I think you're wrong. I don't think he's ready, and I don't think he's ever going to forget what I did. _I _can't forget it – how could he?"

"Maybe he won't forget, but he can forgive. It may surprise you to know that you don't own all the guilt, here. Charlie blames himself for taking the assignment in the first place. It also may surprise you to know why he took the assignment. A big part of it was a feeling of duty to his country, that's true. I think that's a sentiment that both of you share. He admitted, though, that a large part of it was an attempt to impress you – to get your attention - and when you took the job, too, it was a chance to do something unique, meaningful, just with you. He looks up to you, and I suspect that he always has. It isn't uncommon for younger siblings to harbor a sense of hero worship when it comes to their older siblings."

Don snorted. "Now I _know_ you're reading things into this. Charlie is known across the globe - he has no need to look up to anyone. Especially not me." He looked at his watch, even though they were only a minutes into the session. "Are we done, here?"

Wilkes regarded him silently for a split second, then rose. "If you wish," he said, his voice threaded with quiet disappointment. "You know, after how hard you worked at your deprogramming, I really didn't expect this from you – I didn't think you would just give up. Maybe it's not Charlie who's afraid. Maybe you've always been afraid – afraid that if you let your guard down with him, that if you reach out, he'll reject you. It's easier this way, isn't it? As long as he's doing the reaching, you're still in control, emotionally. That's why you get along in the work environment – you're the boss, you have the upper hand, so you can live with that arrangement. God forbid you should ever open up with him, make yourself vulnerable. I'll just let myself out."

He turned and headed for the door in the ensuing silence, and left Don sitting on sofa, still scowling.

* * *

End Chapter 63


	64. Chapter 64

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 64**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all - it's good to be back._

……………………………………………………………

At around nine p.m., Bill Masters and Brian Rogan leaned back wearily against the chairs in the FBI conference room that A.D. Wright had provided for their use, and Masters shook his head slowly, with a grin, just as the door opened. "I'd say he's shit out of luck."

Colby Granger had poked his head in, and followed it with his body. "Don't you guys ever go home?"

"We could ask the same thing of you," retorted Rogan.

"We're ordering pizza – you want some?" asked Colby and at their nod, said curiously, "Who's shit out of luck?"

Masters hesitated, just briefly. Granger was cleared on this case, but they wanted to keep the news to themselves for the time being. "Come in and close the door." Colby raised his eyebrows but complied, and Masters continued. "This is confidential; don't spread it around. We just got off the phone with Conaghan. Remember the Iranian that Charlie identified, the one who made it out of the country?"

Colby nodded. "Khalid, the Aswad Shar'e leader."

"We got a solid report from one of our operatives that he was assassinated in Tehran a couple of weeks ago. The government came out and denounced his death publicly today, but our people think the government was behind the hit. Apparently, word got out that we were planning to extradite Khalid as soon as he showed up in a country that would honor extradition proceedings. We think the Iranian government deemed him a liability, and got rid of him. Our intel is that what was left of Aswad Shar'e has disbanded."

A gleam appeared in Colby's eyes. "So he's no longer a threat to the Eppes."

Rogan nodded. "Yeah. It's a tremendous, perhaps fatal blow to Aswad Shar'e. In addition, it means that Marsh is probably on his own now, with no outside help. As soon as Dr. Eppes can ID him, we can send him on to Washington, and apart from testifying at his trial, they can put this behind them."

Masters grinned. "Marsh is sweating it. We've found a number of inconsistencies in his story. First, his alibi in Pensacola. He stated that he got into Pensacola at eight on the evening of the murders of Dr. Allman and Joe Bishop, and that he was at a bar in Florida at eleven and left with a girl named Jodi Seavers at midnight. Jodi confirmed that, although she admitted she was a little hazy on the time they left – apparently she was pretty intoxicated. Eight to midnight is four hours – it takes six just to drive back and forth to New Orleans, so Marsh and his attorney are maintaining that he could never have gotten there and back the evening of the murders. Jodi came to the bar that night with a girlfriend, however, and the girlfriend thinks it was a lot later, more like after three in the morning, when Jodi left the bar with Marsh. The girlfriend was apparently pretty out of it, too, so her testimony is far from solid, but it does cast some doubt on Marsh's story. Her version gives him enough time to get to New Orleans, commit the murders and return."

"Second is Marsh's statement immediately after he was apprehended, and the evidence in the woods. When you and Sinclair found him, he stated that the man had just shot him and had run off. He changed that story almost immediately - by the time we got him here for questioning, I think he realized that his version left some loose ends – namely, the trail of blood leading along the trail and back, and his blood on the vest, which by that time was already in our possession – although when he made the statement to you and Sinclair, he had no way of knowing that. When we got him in the room here, he said he thinks he passed out right after the attack, and then maybe wandered for a while in shock. When he woke up, he found himself sitting against the tree where you found him, and was vaguely aware of hearing a shot – that's why he thought it had just happened."

Colby's face darkened. "That's bullshit! And it doesn't jive with the rest of his story. If he maintains that the man shot Charlie, then shot him, and then fired a third shot for some unknown reason, then the gun that we found should have had three shots fired from it, and there were only two."

Masters nodded, with a grim smile. "Yeah – and as far as that supposed third shot goes, what was the guy shooting at, anyway? They don't have a good explanation for that. Of course, Marsh and his attorney maintain that the man must have had another gun, and that perhaps he came back to try to finish Marsh off, took a shot and missed, and that you and Sinclair arrived and scared him off. It's a story that will be difficult to disprove, but at least we can show that that Marsh's first statement was inconsistent. By the time Charlie gets on the stand to make his ID, we'll have already poked some holes in Marsh's credibility."

He grinned, a little evilly. "Marsh's attorney told him that Charlie was released from the hospital, and now they're making noises like they want to deal – I think Marsh realizes he's in deep shit. Problem is, he doesn't have anything to deal with, now. With Khalid gone, the only people he could give us are all dead." His grinned broadened. "I'm just enjoying the hell out of this. I can't wait for that son of a bitch to get what's coming to him."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Later that evening, Alan ran a frustrated hand across his face, and glanced sideways. Jonathan Wilkes and Charlie were sitting in the living room, and Alan stepped away toward the dining room to speak into the phone at his ear. "I'm sorry, Stan, I know – I'm gone at the worst possible time. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you shouldering the entire project in my absence. I know it's not good – just do the best you can, and email what you can down to me. I can't leave, but I do have some time to look things over. Okay. Yeah. Bye."

He turned off the phone and headed through the kitchen door, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. He'd held up well during the whole ordeal, but now that things seemed to be calming at home, the stress was belatedly catching up with him. Stan had called him to tell him that their project in Juneau, which was at a critical stage, was in jeopardy; there just weren't enough hours in the day for Stan to examine and approve everything that needed his oversight. It would be a challenging job at this juncture for two of them, and Alan was in L.A., miles away. He knew that having both of his sons home, alive and if not completely well, then at least healing, was the most important thing on the earth, but at the moment, he could feel himself succumbing to stress and fatigue. He found himself leaning over the sink, shoulders slumped, as the door pushed open behind him, quietly.

"Problems?" Wilkes asked.

Alan sighed and straightened a bit, but didn't turn. "Yes," he said wearily. "My partner's up to his neck in problems related to our project in Juneau." He turned, and forced a tired smile. "We'll just have to deal with it, somehow. I can't leave Charlie."

An odd gleam flashed into the other man's eyes, a look that smacked of sudden inspiration. "And why not?" asked Wilkes.

Alan stared at him, and repeated incredulously, "'Why not?' He can barely get into and out of his wheelchair without help. He can't be here by himself."

"Maybe not here, but what about somewhere on a single level, a smaller place, where the bathroom isn't so far away?"

Alan shook his head in bewilderment. "Like where?"

"Don's apartment." Alan gave him a skeptical look and started to shake his head again, but Wilkes went on, enthusiastically. "Hear me out. You and I both agree they need to spend some time together. If you left and Charlie had to stay at Don's apartment, it would make that happen. We'd have to have help to get him up the stairs, but once he's up there it's a small enough place that Charlie could probably manage on crutches. He could fend for himself during the day while Don was at work, even, as long as Don made it easy for him to get something to eat. They'd get some time apart in the daytime, but they'd have a few hours together in the evening to reconnect. And if there was an emergency and Charlie needed help while Don was out, there's a man stationed right outside – we still have a person on protection detail."

"I don't know," Alan said doubtfully. "Are you sure they're ready for that?"

Wilkes smiled. "I'm the guy who's been saying all along they weren't ready, remember? I think they are ready now – in fact, I think if they let this slide now and take the easy way out, it will get harder for them to resolve this as time progresses, not easier."

Alan hesitated, and Wilkes pressed, gently, "I know you don't want to leave Charlie right now, but it could be the best thing for him – and for Don. I can keep tabs on them, and if it doesn't work for some reason, I can help them make other arrangements."

Alan studied him curiously, noting the earnestness in his expression. "Why do you care so much?"

Wilkes grinned disarmingly. "Because my boss, Conaghan, told me I need to clean this up, and I can't go back to my new job until I do." His grin faded as he said more quietly, "I was responsible for this, remember? For what happened to Don, and to Charlie. I know I was following orders, but it doesn't mean I feel good about it. Call it a mission, if you like. I at least want to get them back to some semblance of normal – although it would be even better for them if they resolved some old issues along the way."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don pulled up to the Craftsman, and grimaced. Even in the darkness, he spotted the rental car across the street. He wasn't sure whose it was, but he had a sneaking suspicion it belonged to Wilkes. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and debating whether he should go in, until a faint movement along the house made him realize that he was arousing the suspicion of one Charlie's surveillance team members. He sighed and removed his keys from the ignition, and slid out of his SUV.

He trudged up to the front door in the darkness; no one stopped him – the surveillance team apparently recognized him once he was out of the vehicle. There were only a couple of them now, he knew; the threat to Charlie was deemed to be reduced since they had Marsh in custody. There was a man on his apartment, too, he knew, outside, watching the entrances to the building, and he would be until Charlie made the official identification of Marsh on Thursday.

He stood at the door for a moment, gathering his resolve. Wilkes' words had stung, and he still wasn't convinced the man was right – that Charlie was ready or wanted to see him. Still, guilt had driven him over to see Charlie after Wilkes had gone, guilt and hope, a hope that maybe Wilkes was correct, that Charlie would be receptive to not only repairing their relationship, but strengthening it. Wilkes was certainly right about one thing - for some reason, the thought of pursuing this was terrifying. Was he really that afraid of Charlie's possible rejection? Was he a control freak when it came to their relationship, as Wilkes had insinuated? "That's a load of crap," he muttered to himself, pushing the thoughts aside impatiently. He wasn't afraid, and he would prove it.

He knocked lightly on the door before letting himself in; before all this, he hardly ever knocked, unless he knew that Charlie and Amita were alone in the house, and then, as now, he simply knocked to give them warning he was entering. As he pushed open the door he saw Charlie, who was sitting with his legs propped on the sofa cushions, turn his head and freeze, his eyes widening.

They just stared at each other for a moment, then Charlie carefully composed his features, and Don took a breath and shut the door behind him.

"Hi," said Charlie. He raised an eyebrow. "You're out late. Come on in."

Don found his feet and moved into the room, forcing himself to head over to the chair opposite the sofa. "Yeah. Just thought I'd stop by and see how things were going." He paused awkwardly. "See if, uh, Dad needed any help or anything."

Charlie's eyes looked large, dark, somber in his pale face, but his gaze was steady, his face calm. Maybe too calm – was it forced? Don's eyes drifted to Charlie's hands. They were curled defensively; one tightly clutching the coverlet that laid over him, and the fingers of the other not clenched but rigid; the thumb rubbing the side of Charlie's index finger, nervously. Don could see the tension in the thin forearms, in Charlie's shoulders. Damn, this was a mistake, coming here, he _knew_ it.

The kitchen door pushed open and his father entered, surprise crossing his features as he saw Don. "You're out late," he said, unconsciously echoing Charlie. Over his shoulder, Don caught Wilkes pushing out through the door behind his father, and saw his father exchange a glance with Wilkes before continuing. "I'm glad you're here, actually. I have a situation I need to discuss with the two of you."

Alan moved forward and took the other chair, and as Wilkes made as if to move toward the front door, he waved a hand. "No, you might as well hear this, too, Jon."

'_Jon_?' thought Don. '_Great, now Dad's on a first-name basis with the guy._' His eyes drifted back toward Charlie, wondering if Charlie was, too.

"Stan and I are having some issues with our project in Juneau," Alan continued. "It's reached a critical stage; there's a lot going on and Stan really needs my help. I was wondering what you boys would think about me heading up there, and Charlie staying at your place for a week or two, Don."

Don stared at him; whatever he'd been expecting Alan to say, it wasn't that. He looked at Charlie, and realized that he probably had the same expression on his face as his brother; eyes wide, mouth hanging open slightly. Charlie managed to shut his mouth at the same time as Don, and shot him a nervous glance. They were all looking at him, Don realized. "I, uh, you know I won't be there during the day," he stammered. "I mean, I can probably take a day off or so, but a week – well, you know, I just got back to work and -,"

Alan mercifully cut off his rambling. "Your place is one level, and small enough that I think Charlie could probably navigate on his own during the day, don't you think, son?"

He looked at Charlie, who appeared just as uncomfortable as Don did at the prospect. He shot Don a glance, and then looked away again. "I – yeah, sure. I mean, I'd probably need some help getting up there, but once I was there, I'm sure I could, uh, manage." He swallowed and looked at Don. "Although I might be in the way at night."

Don could feel Wilkes looking at him, and he knew, with sudden certainty, that Wilkes had put his father up to this. He sent Wilkes a direct look with narrowed eyes, and Wilkes gazed back, steadily. He was issuing him a challenge, Don thought to himself, and his jaw tightened slightly. Okay, then, if that was the game, he was up for it. He'd show Wilkes that he wasn't afraid of this. His father was saying something about easier access to the shower in Don's apartment, and Don looked at him. "Yeah, Dad, it'll actually be fine. Charlie can have my bed, and I'll use the sleeper sofa. It's not a problem."

Alan stopped short, surprised by Don's quick acceptance, and then recovered himself, with a glance at Charlie. "Charlie? What do you think?"

Charlie was staring at him again, uncertainly, and as Don turned to look at him, he averted his eyes again, quickly. '_He can't even look at me_,' thought Don. '_Shit, maybe this isn't a good idea. What if he freaks out – has a panic attack or something?_'

Charlie was hesitating, and Wilkes spoke up. "I think you're both more than ready for this, if either of you has any doubts."

Charlie swallowed and nodded. "Well, if Don doesn't mind dealing with an invalid -," he trailed off.

Don replied levelly, his eyes flicking back to Wilkes. "Not at all." He turned his gaze on Charlie and sent him a small smile. "As long as you don't mind frozen pizza and chicken."

Charlie stared back; his face relaxed a bit, and he smiled. It was weak, but it was a smile. "Okay, then." He looked at Alan. "When are you leaving?"

Alan took a deep breath, and forced a smile of his own. "Tomorrow or the day after," he said, "- as soon as I can get a flight."

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They moved Charlie in the next evening; Tuesday after work. Colby and David showed up to help Charlie get up the stairs, and Alan and Don carried his suitcase and laptop, Amita and Larry following them with boxes full of prepared dinners. Alan had spent the majority of the day cooking, as if horrified by Don's 'frozen chicken and pizza' threat. Getting Charlie up the stairs with his bulky cast was a problem, and David and Colby finally resorted to picking him up, Charlie's arms over their shoulders, and their free hands supporting his legs. By the time they got him up the stairs and onto Don's sofa, Charlie's face was flushed with humiliation and pinched with pain, and Don heard him mutter under his breath to Amita, "This was a big mistake. How am I supposed to get back down on Thursday?"

"I'm sure you and Don will figure it out," Amita soothed matter-of-factly, and Don lost the rest of the conversation as he picked up the box of dinners she had set on his coffee table, and carried it into the kitchen. He was beginning to think Charlie was right; his brother was nearly helpless between his weak condition and the cast, and apparently didn't want to be here. This _was_ a big mistake.

It took all the freezer space he had, and he still had to put a couple of dinners in the refrigerator before he emptied the boxes. Alan had headed for the bedroom with Charlie's suitcase to unpack for him, and the others had all taken their leave, except Amita, who sat talking quietly to Charlie, and looked up a bit guiltily as Don stepped out of the kitchen. She rose. "I'll stop by to say 'hi' tomorrow at lunchtime, if that's okay," she said. "I can check on Charlie and help him get lunch."

Don nodded; he realized that he was frowning just a bit, and wiped the expression off his face, softening it with a smile. "Sure, Amita, that would be great."

She leaned over and gave Charlie a quick peck on the lips. "I have to go – I'll see you tomorrow."

Alan appeared from the hallway to the bedroom as she straightened. "I have to go, too," he said. "My flight's at 6:15 tomorrow morning and I have to pack yet."

Don couldn't help but notice the slightly panicked look in Charlie's eyes as he realized that they were both leaving so quickly. "Okay, Dad," said Don, trying to sound confident as he clapped a hand on his father's shoulder. "We'll be fine. Have a good trip."

"Bye," mumbled Charlie, as Amita waved at him on her way out the door.

Alan was right behind her; he turned and pointed a finger at them saying, "And you two eat; you both need to put on some weight – especially you, Charlie. I'll call you when I get to Juneau." With that, they were gone.

Don looked at Charlie, slumped on the sofa, and Charlie looked up at him, and a dead silence settled. Don stood there for a moment, wondering what to say. Charlie looked uneasy, and Don realized that the silence had to be unnerving him. '_Act normally_,' he told himself. _We have two whole weeks to talk_. _We don't need to dive right into it_.' Don forced a grin on his face and headed for the kitchen. "How about dinner? Whatever Dad made smells delicious."

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Dinner was served in front of the television, which served as a convenient excuse for avoiding conversation, but also seemed to lend a little normalcy to the situation. Don could see that Charlie was relaxing a bit, although he poked at his beef stroganoff. With his intestines on the mend, Charlie still couldn't eat anything with a lot of fiber or spice in it, and as a result, Don had a freezer full of comfort food – beef stroganoff with noodles, turkey and rice, chicken a la king.

"You'd better eat some of that," Don managed around a mouthful. "Dad'll kill me if you don't put on some weight these next two weeks."

Charlie managed a wan smile and sent him the briefest of glances, before diverting his eyes back to the television. He did start to eat, however, and a few moments of silence passed as they caught the evening news broadcast. It was drawing to a close, and Don got up to bring their plates to the kitchen. He rinsed them quickly and set them in the sink, deciding to wash them later. He'd turn off the television, he thought; maybe take a stab at conversation. He winced at the choice of words, and turned grimly for the living room, only to find that Charlie was standing, balancing on one leg, reaching for his crutches beside the sofa.

"I'm pretty tired," he said. "Dad said he set my laptop up by the bed – I'm gonna turn in for the night."

Don was struck silent for a moment, taken aback. Charlie had been there less than an hour, and already he was retreating. Not only did he not want to talk, he didn't even want to be in Don's presence, apparently. "Uh, yeah, sure – just let me get some clothes out for tomorrow," Don mumbled and strode into the bedroom, where he grabbed some clean clothes for work.

He came out holding them and stood aside as Charlie crutched slowly past. Charlie's arms were shaking with the effort, but Don let him go, for two reasons. First, Charlie was going to be there by himself the next day, and Don wanted to be sure that he could really get around by himself. Second, he was afraid to make physical contact, afraid it would unnerve Charlie, maybe even send him into a panic attack. The moment passed in silence and supreme awkwardness. "'Night," called Don softly. "Let me know if you need anything."

"'Night," returned Charlie. He didn't bother, or was unable, to turn his head; he just kept crutching slowly down the short hallway that led past the bathroom to the bedroom. "Thanks, okay, I will."

Don watched him go, a sinking feeling of disappointment in his heart.

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End Chapter 64


	65. Chapter 65

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 65**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the call for reviews, MGC; that was sweet. Yes, this is winding down – but a lot happens in the last few chapters. I changed the ending significantly just yesterday. Thanks so much to all my reviewers, and rest assured; the action isn't over yet._

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Charlie sighed dispiritedly as Amita let herself out the next afternoon after her lunchtime visit. She'd run over between classes and could afford a mere twenty minutes; enough time to make him a sandwich, enough time to make him think about how long it had been since he felt her skin against his, and then she'd gone. He was tired and despondent; he'd spent a restless night the evening before. Tomorrow was Thursday; he was finally going to formally identify Marsh, and as the day approached, he could feel nearly unbearable tension rising. His sleep the night before was riddled with nightmares, more violent than they'd been in over a week, and he kept telling himself it was because he was anticipating the coming face-to-face with Marsh – not because he was cooped up in an apartment with Don.

He had to face it, he didn't want to be there – he didn't want to be there because Don apparently didn't want him there. The awkward silences and forced smiles spoke volumes, and were obvious even to Charlie, who had been accused of being less than observant when it came to people. It was clear that Don was putting up with him for Alan's sake. Charlie's worst fear had been realized. Their relationship was decidedly broken; they hadn't communicated well before, and now it seemed impossible. He could feel despair growing, mingling with tension and a leftover undercurrent of fear, a sense of anxiety that he couldn't seem to shake. He knew that Wilkes would call it post-traumatic stress, but labeling it didn't make it any easier to handle, or to understand how to stop it. Charlie had the sense that all of it was welling up inside, festering like the infection that had almost killed him. It needed release, it needed to come out somehow, but he didn't know how to get it to do that.

No, it didn't help at all to be stuck with Don when he didn't want him there, and on top of all of it, Charlie had to face the humiliation of being a burden, of being cared for like a child. He was still relatively helpless, and that, he was certain, only added to the irritation that Don surely felt at being saddled with his presence. He was dreading the night – he had to get cleaned up for the next day. He would have to take a bath; he needed to keep his cast out of the water, and he was too unsteady on his one leg; it made a shower out of the question. He had considered asking Amita to come to help, but she was swamped, covering her own classes and some of his, trying to catch up after her trip, and besides, he wasn't sure she was strong enough. He would have to ask Don for assistance – it was one more manifestation of his annoying state of helplessness. He sat on the sofa and poked listlessly at his keyboard and his sandwich for the rest of the afternoon, wincing as he heard the sound of the keys in the door that signified Don's arrival.

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Don rinsed the last plate, and stuck it in the dishwasher. Tonight had been worse than last night, if possible; Charlie seemed wound tight, his dark eyes filled with a look that wrenched Don's heart. Don was almost tempted to call Wilkes, to tell him he should come over and see what was eating at Charlie, but he knew what Wilkes would say – he would tell Don to find out for himself. The problem was, Charlie didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to look at him; hell, he didn't even want to be in the same room with him. He had retreated to the bedroom immediately after dinner, mumbling something about grading papers for Amita.

Don plunked down morosely on the sofa, stared at the television and turned it on with a dispirited flick of the remote, taking a pull at a bottle of beer. Somehow, the apartment, which usually seemed like a haven, seemed lonely, cold, in spite of the fact that for once, he wasn't alone. Charlie was here, yet he wasn't.

He'd made it through one beer and was halfway through the second one, when the slight thunk of a crutch hit his ear and he caught movement in his peripheral vision. He turned his head to see Charlie in the entrance to the hallway that led to the bedroom, looking embarrassed and miserable. "I, uh, I need to get cleaned up for tomorrow," he said.

Don raised an eyebrow. "So, go ahead, you can use the bathroom."

Charlie hesitated. "I'm not supposed to get my cast wet. I'm going to have to take a bath instead of a shower, and prop my leg on the tub."

Don rose from his seat. "I'll get you a trash bag; we can put that around your cast." He strode into the kitchen purposefully; it felt good to offer help, to be doing something, _anything_, along the lines of interaction. He grabbed duct tape and a plastic trash bag and headed toward the hallway, stopping short as he entered it to see Charlie standing uncertainly outside the bathroom door.

Charlie looked up at him, the dark eyes huge in the relative gloom of the hallway. Don was reminded of a spooked deer, ready to bolt. "What's the matter?"

"I – uh – I don't think I can, uh, get in without help." Charlie looked down, and even in the dimness of the hallway, Don could see the flush staining his cheeks.

"I can help you," he replied matter-of-factly, before the implication hit him. This meant nudity, and was obviously going to be a humiliating prospect for Charlie; hell, it was going to be embarrassing for him. It was too late to back out after his statement, however, and he wasn't sure that he could refuse, anyway. He'd promised his father that he was going to take care of Charlie in his absence. Of course, when he'd made that promise, he hadn't thought about the fact that Charlie might need help in the bathroom. He swallowed. "Uh, why don't you go in and get undressed and get the bag on your leg." He waved tape and the plastic garbage bag at Charlie, then stepped around him and into the bathroom, placing the items on the sink. He leaned over and started the water. "How do you want your water? Warm?"

"Uh, yeah," Charlie's voice sounded uncertain. "Kind of hot, if that's okay. I'm a little cold."

Don straightened so fast he got a kink in his back, and he grunted as he turned around to face Charlie. "Cold? You're feeling okay, right?" he asked anxiously.

Charlie stared at him, then a look of comprehension dawned on his face. "Yeah. It's not chills or anything. I just get a little cold when I'm sitting there, not moving around."

Relieved, Don leaned back over and tested the water, and then stepped out of the room, with a vague wave behind him. "Okay, go in and get ready, and yell when you want me to help you in."

He put his head down and shuffled off to the living room, standing there aimlessly for several minutes, waiting for Charlie to call him. "People do this all the time," he told himself. "Nurses, home health aides. So it's a little embarrassing, it's not a big deal."

At Charlie's, "Okay, I'm ready!" he trudged back. Charlie was standing next to the tub on one leg like a stork, one hand gripping the towel rack for support, the other, to Don's infinite relief, holding a towel around his waist. He almost cracked a joke, but then he got a good look at Charlie, and bit it off, his heart lurching. Charlie had a face that was deceptively full, and always wore baggy clothing. The combined effect made him look heavier than he really was; Don knew that even when healthy, Charlie weighed a mere 145 pounds, give or take. Now he was painfully, heartbreakingly thin, and Don was shocked; he hadn't realized how gaunt he was. The scars on his chest were also still evident; that was bad enough, but the look on his face made Don realize that this wasn't a laughing matter, not to Charlie. This went way beyond embarrassment; Charlie was breathing rapidly, and had a panicked look in his eyes.

He felt vulnerable, Don realized suddenly – the situation had made Charlie realize how helpless he really was, and now he found himself cornered in the tiny bathroom, facing a man who, not too long ago, had tried to stab him to death. Don moved slowly, trying to make his movements and voice soothing, as he stepped closer. "Okay, Chuck, turn a little, I'm going to put my hands under your shoulders and help lift you in."

The old nickname rolled off his tongue as it always had, and it made Charlie's head come up quickly, and just a bit of the apprehension left his face. A bit, but not enough; he still looked petrified, miserable, humiliated. Don put his hands under his brother's shoulders and averted his face as Charlie dropped the towel and swung his good leg into the tub. Then Don eased him down into the water, and gently positioned the cast on the edge of the tub. Charlie hissed a little as he was lowered into the water. "Too hot?" Don asked, looking at the sink.

"No, it's good," came Charlie's voice, shakily.

Don stared at the sink and rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "Okay, uh, well, call me when you're ready to get out." He stumped out, trying to force the vision of the scarred, emaciated figure out of his mind. It hurt just to look at him, and brought home just how much Charlie had been through physically; how close they had come to losing him, twice. Don sat back down on the sofa and took another swig of his beer, trying to force it down past the lump in his throat.

He had been idly flicking through channels, and was reflecting that Charlie had been in there for while, when a knock sounded on the door. He stiffened and set his beer down, moving quickly to the door, and looked out the viewing hole. He relaxed as he saw that it was Robin, and mentally berated himself for his nervous reaction - apparently, Charlie's tenseness was contagious. He swung the door open, and Robin smiled at him, and held out a covered pan. "I thought you two might need some dinner," she said. "Did you eat?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," said Don, hesitating, then taking the dish as she held out to him, wondering how he was going to eat all the food they'd been given, especially since Charlie didn't seem to be helping much.

"Then put it in the refrigerator for tomorrow," she said, smiling. "Unless you guys want to go out and celebrate after Charlie's done with his line-up." Her smile turned teasing. "You'd better eat it at some point, though – you know I don't cook every day." She peered around him. "Where's Charlie?"

Don flushed a little. "He's taking a bath. Not exactly the easiest thing to do with that cast. I'll probably have to help him out of there in a minute."

Her eyebrows raised in slight surprise as she considered the prospect, and then the teasing grin returned. "That'll be good practice for when you have to give your kids a bath someday." She held his eyes, smiling a little wickedly, and a slow answering smile came to his face. It occurred to him suddenly that having kids might not be such a bad idea, especially when it came to making them with her.

"Is that an invitation?"

Her smile widened. "Maybe – but not tonight. In fact, I should get out of here. I'm sure Charlie's embarrassed enough by the situation without having me hanging around." She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. "Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow. Do you need help getting him there?"

"Nah," he murmured, and leaned forward kissed her again. "Colby and David will help me get him there and back. I'll see you there."

"Goodnight," she murmured and shut the door. He just stood there a moment, holding the casserole with a stupid grin on his face, and then suddenly it dawned on him that Charlie had been in there a while, and he hadn't heard a sound.

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Charlie sat rigidly in the hot water, motionless until he heard Don's steps recede down the hallway. His hamstrings and the surgery site in his lower left abdomen were protesting the position of his injured leg, propped on the side of the tub, and he shifted gingerly, trying to get his leg into a more comfortable position. The hot water felt good, he realized as he began to calm down – no, it felt like heaven; he'd had nothing but sponge baths at the hospital, although he did get his hair washed over a basin once. That, like the last sponge bath, had been barely adequate, and too long ago. He sat there for a moment, trying to calm the beating of his heart, willing himself to relax as the heat seeped into his body.

"It's damn bath, for Pete's sake," he muttered to himself. "Granted, it's a little embarrassing, but it's nothing to get worked up over." Even as he spoke to himself, though, he could feel apprehension roiling in his gut. The fact was, he couldn't control his reaction, the sudden spasm of fear that shot through him as he stood there helplessly in the small room, and the door swung open. He'd almost degenerated into a full-fledged panic attack on the spot, but only almost, he reminded himself. He'd managed to keep control. He didn't even think Don had prompted it – it was the situation, the small room, the almost unbearable feeling of anxiety he felt over seeing Marsh the next day. He wasn't even sure why the prospect of seeing Marsh was affecting him so profoundly – but he did know that his apprehension was increasing, and he didn't know how to stop it.

He sighed and reached for the shampoo, dampening his hair, lathering and rinsing. It was so long; he needed a haircut badly, and rinsing took a while. He shivered a little; the water was cooling off, or was that fear creeping up inside him again?

The guilt didn't help - the knowledge that none of this would have happened if he hadn't insisted on taking the undercover assignment, the certainty that Don would forever blame him for what they'd gone through. Now Don was caring for him as if he were a feeble child; putting up with him for their Dad's sake, because it was the right thing to do, and Don always did the right thing. Charlie laughed; a sardonic brittle sound that echoed slightly in the tiled room. He'd taken the assignment because it had been the right thing to do for his country's security, because he'd been trying to impress Don, because he'd wanted to do something meaningful with his brother, because he wanted to connect. It had all backfired; all of his reasons, except for his desire to support his country, lay in shambles. Impress Don? Hardly. He'd fumbled his way through the assignment and had gotten lucky enough to get the information. Effective, he supposed, but hardly impressive. Do something meaningful with his brother? Connect? He winced at those thoughts. The assignment had nearly cost them their lives, and it was a wonder it hadn't cost Don his sanity. It had driven a wall between them, a stake in their relationship. The only original goal that was still intact was to put away the people behind the plot – to put away Marsh. Somehow, he had to get his head together and get through that without screwing it up. Maybe then, Don might eventually if not respect him, at least be able to tolerate being around him again.

He was getting tired and ready to get out, and the water was starting to get cold, but now he could hear voices in the other room – it sounded like Robin, and Charlie grimaced. Without a doubt, Don would much rather be spending the evening with her than with his helpless, feeble, invalid of a brother. He closed his eyes and waited, dejectedly.

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Don strode toward the bathroom door, panic mounting in his chest. It was quiet, much too quiet. He never should have left Charlie in there alone. What if he slid underwater, and couldn't pull himself out because of the cast? Hell, what if he'd passed out, or something? He reached the door and flung it open, lost his grip, and it banged against the wall. Charlie had been sitting with his head down, but at the noise his head jerked up, and he gasped. He was chalk-white, and Don could see tremors running through him, and a flood of relief and chagrin went through him at the same time. "Shit – I mean, I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't mean to bang the door like that. I got hung up talking with Robin – did you call?"

"N-n- no," stammered Charlie. His eyes flitted past Don to the hallway.

"She's gone," said Don, more gently, making sure to enter slowly. He picked the towel up from the floor, where Charlie had dropped it, and handed it to him. "Here – you hang onto this, and I'm going to try to lift you out."

Out was tougher than in, and Don could feel his newly-healed arm twinge with the effort. Not that there was much to lift; Don was certain that Robin weighed more than Charlie did at this point. It was just awkward, in more ways than one. The last time Don had seen his brother without clothes had been as a toddler, and he preferred to keep it that way. Especially when Charlie looked like a victim of some horrific famine.

Somehow, he got him out of the tub and standing, and somehow during the process Charlie managed to drape the towel around his waist. He stood there, shivering, pale, uncertain, his weight on his good leg, his head down. "Here," said Don, and put an arm around him to support him. "Hop over here and sit down." He put the lid down on the toilet, and got Charlie situated on the seat. "I'll be right back."

He came back with a clean T-shirt and boxers, oversized and made of a stretchable material so Charlie could get them over the cast. "Can you get these on?" Charlie nodded and took them, and Don backed out and closed the door, and then ducked into the bedroom and pulled down the rumpled covers. The sooner he got Charlie into bed the better; he looked freezing and ready to drop. Hell, he looked more than that, Don thought. He looked whipped, drained – face it, he looked terrified. Best to deal with him quickly; get him into the bedroom where he obviously felt a little safer. He would talk to Wilkes tomorrow, Don decided; this simply wasn't working. It was too hard on Charlie, and he had to admit, too hard on him to see that look in his brother's eyes, and know it was there because of him.

He knocked lightly on the bathroom door and pushed it open. Charlie sat there, hunched and still shivering in his boxers and T-shirt. His damp hair straggled down around his face; with the long damp curls and the soulful dark eyes, he reminded Don of a cocker spaniel that had been out in the rain. Don handed him his crutches. "Can you manage to get to the bedroom?"

Charlie hesitated, then nodded. He pulled himself up stiffly, and began to crutch out of the room and down the hall. His arms were shaking so badly with the effort Don was afraid he was going to collapse, but he made it to the bed, and Don helped him swing his cast up onto the mattress, and pulled the blankets over him. "Do you need anything? Tea, or something?"

"N-no." The words came out as a half whisper. "Th-thanks, though." The dark eyes rested on him, and Don thought he caught a flicker of gratitude in their depths.

"Okay. Just yell if you need something. I'll wake you up in plenty of time to get ready tomorrow."

He turned out the light and shut the bedroom door, conscious of the two dark eyes that followed him. Out in the living room, he shut off the television and sighed. He was too tired to bother with pulling out the sofa bed; instead, he grabbed the neatly folded blanket and his pillow from where he'd stashed them in the corner, turned out the light, and crawled onto the sofa.

He lay there for a moment, thinking over the images of the evening, and felt a wave of despair wash over him. Not only was regaining their relationship an apparent pipe dream, he was beginning to wonder if Charlie would recover from this. He was so – so _beaten_ – so unlike his usual confident self; crushed, to the point of being non-functional… or maybe not. Charlie hadn't looked nearly this rattled two nights before, at the Craftsman. '_It has to be me,_' Don thought, with a pang. '_It freaks him out to be around me._' He thought of Robin and their conversation earlier, the mention of having kids, and suddenly those happy visions didn't seem so bright. He wanted Charlie to be a part of that future when it happened, but that was looking less and less likely. He sighed, and closed his eyes.

He woke again three hours later, to an ear-splitting scream.

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End Chapter 65


	66. Chapter 66

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 66**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

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Don's heart lurched, and his limbs with it. He was disoriented, and didn't quite remember where he was. As a result of that and the frantic attempt to gain his feet, he missed his footing and went down hard on his hip on the floor next to the sofa. The pain jolted him awake, and with a muttered oath, he scrambled up and dashed back toward the bedroom, from which had come a second cry. As he entered, in the faint light he could see Charlie thrashing violently on the bed, and his first thought was that he was going to hurt himself; the second was that maybe he was ill. Both thoughts propelled him to the bed, and he grabbed Charlie's shoulder, gently but firmly, trying to still his frantic movements. "Charlie – Charlie -,"

He didn't get another word out; Charlie flipped suddenly; a wild twisted conglomeration of skinny limbs, cast, and blankets launched itself toward the side of the bed and Don lunged forward, trying to keep him from going over the edge. Charlie had too much momentum, however, and Don couldn't get a good grip; the blanket was sliding like a boa constrictor. Charlie's knee caught him in the gut, and with an 'oof,' Don went down again, hard, on the same hip he'd hit in the living room, with Charlie on top of him. "Damn – Charlie, _Charlie_!"

The thrashing stilled suddenly, and Charlie froze. It was dark and they were prone on the floor, twisted in the blankets, but as far as Don could tell, Charlie was half sitting, half lying, his weight on one hip, his torso turned toward the floor. He appeared to be supporting himself on his elbows and his head was down, his face hidden by a mass of dark curls. His legs lay across Don's, and through them, he could feel Charlie shaking; or maybe not – it was an odd rhythmic movement. It took him a moment to realize that Charlie was crying, silently; trying to hold it in; his shoulders shaking with the effort.

He started to reach for Charlie then stopped himself, thinking that physical contact, at least from him, might disturb Charlie even more, and he sat there for a moment, one hand extended over his brother's back, as if he was pronouncing a benediction. "Aw, hell," he muttered to himself, then reached out and pulled Charlie upright, towards him, with one arm around the skinny shoulders. He was tired of dancing around, trying to avoid contact. Charlie obviously needed some reassurance; he just had to hope he'd take it that way.

One of Charlie's hands went up to his face, wiping tears away; he obviously was struggling mightily to get himself under control. As Don pulled him upright, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

They sat there for a minute, Don's arm around his shoulders, then Don said, "Don't be sorry – it's okay." His arm was tense, ready to pull away if the contact spooked Charlie, but then suddenly Charlie, who was in an awkward position due to his entangled legs and the cumbersome cast, sagged against him, leaning into Don's chest. Don blinked in surprise, then eased his arms around him, supporting his weight. In an ordinary situation, he'd never consider holding him like this, and Charlie probably would never have let him. In fact, Don was shocked that Charlie was allowing it now, but through the shock crept a warm feeling, a feeling that maybe, somehow, Charlie was trying to reach out, that perhaps everything wasn't lost after all. He cleared his throat and asked quietly, "Nightmare?"

Charlie was still trying to choke down the watery after-effects of his meltdown, and he swallowed before answering huskily, "Yeah."

Don felt him stiffen slightly, and his heart dropped. No doubt, he'd been the cause of Charlie's terror; the fact that Charlie was leaning against him wasn't due to acceptance, it was due to weakness on Charlie's part; that was all. The contact had been only momentary while Charlie shifted his weight; he was now trying to pull away. Don didn't want to know, but something made him ask the question. "Me?"

"What?" Charlie was still shifting, trying to get his good leg and the cast untwisted from the blanket.

Don felt his throat contracting, and he had to force the words out. "Was it me in your nightmare?"

Charlie had managed to get upright into a sitting position, and Don sensed him as he froze; could feel his brother's eyes on him in the darkness. "No." He sounded taken aback, then a little shaken as he answered. "Marsh – it's always Marsh. You're in the dream sometimes, but you never -," he broke off, and repeated earnestly. "It was Marsh. Lately, if I dream about it – it's always him."

They sat silently for a moment, Don could sense Charlie's head turned toward him, his eyes trained his direction, and he felt a hard pit of fear and disappointment deep inside begin to thaw, ever so slightly. "We need to talk," Don said, and his voice sounded odd, thick with emotion. "Tomorrow, after you put that son of a bitch away for good, we're going to sit down and talk."

There was faint movement but no verbal response; Don hoped it was the nod of Charlie's head.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you back in bed."

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Don woke to the sound of the alarm in his cell phone, and blinked stupidly for a moment. It took one split second to remember that he wasn't going in to work that morning, and another for the realization to dawn that this was the morning Charlie went to identify Marsh. Following that was the memory of the night before; it almost seemed like a dream. Maybe it _had_ been a dream, he thought, frowning, as he went to start the coffee maker. Maybe it had been wishful thinking on his part, a sublimated yearning for resolution in their relationship that had manifested itself in his sleep.

He trudged back toward the bedroom, treading slowly, more carefully, as he stepped through the door. Charlie was lying on his hip, his arms under the pillow and his face turned partially into it, so that little was showing of his head other than a wild mess of dark hair. The blankets were askew, and as Don eyed the sprawled figure, he had a sudden flashback to high school, and of going into Charlie's bedroom to wake him for school. The thought made him smile. "Wake up, Chuck."

Charlie's head lifted with a start, and he gazed groggily at the headboard for a second before rolling onto his side and pushing himself up. Don half-expected him to keep his eyes averted, to avoid his gaze, but Charlie looked up at him directly; although his expression was somber and already filled with tension. Don sat on the bed, next to him. "Look, Charlie, it's going to be okay. It'll be very quick, and you'll be out of there before you know it."

Charlie's crutches were tucked between the bed and the nightstand, leaning against the wall, and Don leaned forward, grabbed them, and handed them to Charlie. "Why don't you come on out and get a cup of coffee, while I get a shower?"

Charlie took the crutches but he didn't move. Instead, he said in a shaky voice, "What if I screw this up?"

Don stared at him, disconcerted. "What do you mean? You aren't going to screw this up, Charlie; you've seen him twice, and once recently. You'll know him when you see him. There's nothing to screw up."

Charlie nodded silently and slid off the bed, transferring his weight to the crutches. "Sorry about last night," he mumbled, as he crutched off toward the kitchen. Don watched him maneuver out the door before he rose to follow him. It hadn't been a dream, then, he thought to himself, and the thought brought the ghost of a smile to his lips. It faded as Charlie's last question echoed in his head – the lack of confidence was so unlike Charlie, and was disturbing in itself. Don frowned, and followed him through the door.

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The morning turned out to be an ordeal. Don managed to coerce Charlie into eating breakfast, only for Charlie to lose it moments later on the bedroom floor. Getting Charlie dressed flummoxed both of them; he still had to wear snap up track pants because of the cast, and his hair needed to be tamed. Colby and David arrived while Don was cleaning up the mess on the bedroom floor; they managed to get Charlie downstairs, but all three of them nearly took a tumble in the process. Traffic was terrible, and they arrived five minutes late. Don pinched his thumb, drawing blood, as he tried to open Charlie's wheelchair. They finally arrived in the viewing room, somewhat flustered and out of breath. Charlie sat in his chair, silent, pale, and appeared nearly ready to pass out, and Don eyed him anxiously. What if he _did_ mess this up, he wondered? What if Charlie was so rattled that he tagged the wrong man?

Masters, Wilkes, and Rogan were all present, and so were A.D. Wright, Robin, and others, including representatives from the U.S. Attorney General's office and from the law offices representing Marsh. The lawyers from both sides eyed Charlie curiously, he would be the key witness at the trial, and Don had to wonder at the impression, or lack of it, that his brother was making. His clothing was an odd mixture; track pants and a tweed jacket, and his hair was long and unruly, even by Charlie's standards. He looked thin and scared, hunched in his seat in the wheelchair. Don could see Wilkes frowning at his appearance, and he had the inclination to sidle next to him and mutter, "I told you so," but he squelched it. The truth was, he was beginning to hope that Wilkes had made the right call – that it _had_ been a good thing for him and Charlie to spend time alone together.

They were holding the line-up at LAPD headquarters, and Lieutenant Walker did the honors and went over the standard speech, explaining to Charlie and the assembled group that the curtain would be pulled, that the men lined up inside could not see them, and that Charlie was to take the time he needed to make an identification. As an officer drew the curtain, Don stepped forward and helped Charlie to his feet, or rather, foot, and put an arm around him to support him, as Charlie stood, his weight on his good leg. Don caught a flash of approval in Wilkes' eyes as he waited patiently for Charlie to examine the men.

Don picked Marsh out immediately - he'd spent plenty of time in the past days going over interrogation video - even though the group all contained men of similar appearance, dark-haired, within an inch or two of Marsh's height. He was wearing the number four, and his face was expressionless, although Don detected a slight twitch in his face, along his jaw line. '_That's right, you asshole, sweat it,_' Don thought darkly, anger coursing through him at the mere sight of the man.

The silence stretched, and he shot an anxious glance at Charlie, who was staring, body vibrating with tension, his face chalk-pale, his dark eyes unreadable. His gaze was fixed on a single point, and Don tried to follow his eyes, to see if he was staring at Marsh. The pause was becoming uncomfortable; everyone in the room was looking at Charlie, and Walker cleared his throat. "Dr. Eppes?"

Charlie blinked, and seemed to regain his focus. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "He put us through a lot, and I got caught up in my thoughts. He's number four; and for the record, I picked him out immediately. He's the man I saw in New Orleans in Montreaux's study, and the man I saw in the Angeles National Forest."

The prosecuting group breathed a collective sigh of relief. Marsh's lawyers didn't react; one of them was taking notes, but otherwise they were stony-faced, and as the curtain was drawn they filed out of the room, one of them murmuring to one of the prosecuting attorneys on the way out. The prosecutors conferred quietly with Masters, Rogan, and Wright as Don eased Charlie back down into his seat, and then Rogan and Masters came toward them. Brian Rogan clapped him on the shoulder and pumped his hand. "Dr. Eppes; it's good to see you. Great job."

Bill Masters beamed. "We've already got a meeting lined up with Marsh and his lawyers. They apparently were anticipating this; and one of them requested an immediate consult. My guess is that they want to cut a deal."

One of the men from the Attorney General's office lifted his lip in a mocking smile. "They can ask for a deal, but they won't get one. He has nothing to offer us." He inclined his head toward Charlie. "Thank you, professor. We appreciate you making the identification while you're still convalescing. The trial won't occur for weeks; we'll be in touch with you before then." He turned and headed out, the contingent of support staff filing after him, and Masters, Rogan, Wright, and Walker followed them, on their way to meet with Marsh's attorneys. The group was dwindling; Colby and David sidled over to Charlie and got in a pat on the back and offered congratulations and large satisfied grins, and Robin leaned over and whispered something in Charlie's ear. He had been sitting there, still pale and quiet, but her words finally brought a slight smile to his face.

"Hey, a bunch of us were thinking of going out later, after work, to celebrate," said Colby, looking from Don to Charlie. "You guys up for that?"

Charlie hesitated, then, with a reluctant glance at Don, said, "I'm not sure if I am. I'd better take a rain check."

Don could feel the others' eyes on him, but he didn't respond; he was watching Charlie. The brief smile had vanished when Charlie looked at him; the pale face closed again. Don heard Robin say, "Yeah, I'm tied up, too. Don't let us stop you from going out, but maybe we'll hold off on celebrating until they feel up to it."

He could hear the rest of them talking in the background, but the sound barely permeated the unexpected sense of disappointment he felt. The moment should have been a celebration, it should have meant closure, but it was oddly anticlimactic. Marsh might have been dealt with, but their future as brothers wasn't, and based on Charlie's reactions the past few days, might never be.

He was sidetracked by his musings as they moved out in the hallway, but he was drawn out of his thoughts as a lean figure detached itself from where it was propped against a wall, and approached. "Hey, Don," said Ian Edgerton quietly. "Got a minute?"

David overheard the request, looked at Don, and said, "Colby and I will get Charlie out to the SUV. We'll meet you out there."

Don nodded at him and glanced quickly at Charlie, catching just a brief glimpse of dark unreadable eyes before he turned to face Ian. The rest of the group moved down the hallway, leaving him and Edgerton in relative privacy. "How's your arm?" asked Ian.

Don flexed his shoulder to demonstrate. "Good," he said. "Pretty much healed up."

"I'm heading out today," said Ian. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you since we were in the Angeles, and I wanted to apologize. I should have had more trust in you."

Don grimaced, wryly. "No apology needed, Ian. You were doing your job." He looked at Ian, his dark eyes reflecting a hint of pain. "I thought I had my head on pretty straight, but once I got out there, there were times I wasn't sure of myself. After what happened, I don't blame anyone for not trusting me." _Especially Charlie_…

The last words were unspoken, but the thought must have been apparent, because Ian said, as if prompted, "How's Charlie doing?"

Don's eyes followed the group at the far end of the hallway, catching sight of the slight figure in the wheelchair just before it turned the corner. "Okay." His words were quiet, without conviction. "It'll just take some time, that's all."

Ian was studying him, and Don had the feeling that he wasn't fooling him, but Edgerton merely nodded. "Good. They're tapping me to testify at Marsh's trial along with both of you, so I'll probably see you in Washington in a few weeks."

It was a good-bye, and Don turned down the hallway, nodding. "Okay – we'll see you then."

"And Eppes," Ian added, as he turned the opposite direction, and Don stopped and looked back at him, "maybe it's time to worry less about being trusted, and instead, to have trust in someone else."

He strode off down the hallway, and Don stood there for a long moment, before he turned and walked away.

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End Chapter 66

_A/N: Marsh is so not out of it. Only three chapters to go – do I have you guessing? Am I posting these too fast?_


	67. Chapter 67

**Mind Games**

**Chapter 67**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. This chapter is a personal favorite._

* * *

Charlie's eyes followed Amita and Larry out the door; they'd both stopped by at lunchtime, eager to hear how the identification had gone. The three of them had sat in Don's living room while Don puttered around in the kitchen, rinsing dishes and filling the dishwasher. The cleanup was necessary, but not at that particular moment, and Charlie got the impression that Don was distancing himself. He turned his head as Don stepped into the living room, finally showing himself as the door closed behind Larry and Amita.

Charlie looked at him, then reached for his crutches. "I'm pretty tired," he said. "I might take a nap." He grunted as he pulled himself to his feet; it was no lie; the events of the morning had exhausted him. He felt relieved, but strangely empty; finally sealing the charges against Marsh didn't generate the feeling of victory that he'd expected. Of course, that victory was hollow; things would never be the same between himself and Don. Their relationship, or the hope for a chance at one, was a casualty of everything that had gone before, a stream of events that had been started the day he chose to take the undercover assignment. It was understandable that Don couldn't forgive him for that, and Charlie didn't expect him to forgive, or forget.

Once on his feet, he faced Don. "You might as well go hang out with Colby and David tonight; you could use a break from babysitting." He tried to muster a smile. "I'll be okay."

Don was silent for a moment, then he said, "I'll see. I might run into work this afternoon, if it's all right."

Charlie wasn't expecting anything different, but still, he felt his heart drop at the stiffness, the lack of emotion in Don's response. He gave a brief nod, put his head down, and began to crutch for the bedroom.

Don's voice stopped him. "You did good today, buddy."

Charlie didn't turn, he just nodded, and hobbled out of the room.

Once in the bedroom, he leaned his crutches next to the bed, and lay down, propping his leg carefully on the bed first to avoid pulling on his incision site. Don had cleaned up his mess from the morning and made the bed, and his ministrations somehow made Charlie feel worse, instead of better. He could hear Don moving around in the other room, and the eventual sound of the door to the apartment opening and closing. At that moment, his cell phone vibrated on the nightstand, and he reached for it and flipped it open. His father's voice floated out of the earpiece as he answered.

"Charlie! How'd it go?"

"Good, Dad. It was easier than I thought – no issues. They can complete their charges against Marsh now, and they're moving him to a federal prison. The trial will be several weeks from now, in Washington."

"That's great. How are you doing?" Alan's tone was hearty, but Charlie could tell it was a bit forced; it contained an undercurrent of anxiety.

"Good. Don's been taking good care of me." He had been, thought Charlie, sadly. Don had been the model caretaker – feeding him, bathing him, cleaning up after him without complaint. Calmly, detachedly doing his duty. "We got lunch and he went back in to the office. Colby and David were going out tonight after work – I told Don to go with them. He could use a break, I'm sure."

"No celebration?"

"I think that's what they're going out for – they invited me, but I'm just not up for it yet. Actually, I'm pretty beat, I think I'm going to take a nap."

"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his father's voice, and Charlie winced. Alan had been hoping they would spend some celebratory moments together; he was sure. His father had always wished for them to be closer; he was facing a lot more disappointment, Charlie was afraid.

He changed the subject. "How are things going in Juneau?"

"Extremely busy – in fact, I have to get to a meeting with some contractors. It was a good thing I came up here – there was no way Stan was going to handle this on his own."

"Well, don't worry about us, Dad – we're doing fine - really. I'll talk to you later." He flipped the phone shut at Alan's good-bye, and stared at the ceiling.

* * *

Don sat in his SUV outside his apartment, gazing blankly through the windshield. The keys were in the ignition, but he hadn't started the vehicle yet. He felt deflated; he wasn't sure what he'd been hoping for, but it hadn't been a dismissal. Colby was right; they should be celebrating. If not that, at least trying to talk through things. Charlie didn't seem ready or willing to do that, however, and Don didn't want to push. For all he knew, it was still difficult for Charlie to be around him. Maybe it always would be.

He closed his eyes, and snatches of events and conversations played through his mind. No matter how hard he tried to forget, the bloody scene in the glass conference room was there, lurking on the edges of his consciousness. Then Charlie, lying on the ground in the park, in agony, begging him to end it. How could Don expect him to go through that and still want to be around him? Sure, he could push to regain what they had, but he would probably only succeed in making Charlie more uncomfortable. It would be easier just to let it lay, try to muddle through life; they were both pretty good at putting up fronts. They might even be able to work together again, business as usual, after enough time had passed, if he didn't rock the boat. Or he could push, and risk… what?

Wilkes' voice sounded in his head. '_Maybe you've always been afraid – afraid that if you let your guard down with him, that if you reach out, he'll reject you… God forbid you should ever open up with him, make yourself vulnerable…,' _It was followed by Ian's cryptic observation from that very afternoon. _'…maybe it's time to worry less about being trusted, and instead, to have trust in someone else._'

He groaned, and ran a hand down over his face. He wasn't ready for this, and it would be so much easier just to go into the office. "Aw, hell," he muttered, and wrenching the keys in the ignition to start the vehicle, he threw it into gear.

He got back at around five that evening. The apartment was quiet, and the waning afternoon light filtered through the windows. His arms were full, and he made his way into the kitchen and set his packages down with a clunk, and then headed for the bedroom to check on Charlie.

He was greeted at the door by a wide-eyed apparition, his weight on one leg, wielding a crutch over his head. He ducked instinctively, but as soon as Charlie saw it was him, he froze, and then lowered the crutch. Don had to grin at his dumfounded expression. "Hey – I know I interrupted your nap, but you don't have to take my head off."

Charlie's gaze fell, and a flush stained his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I thought you were going out after work – I wasn't expecting you back, and I woke up and heard noises – it kind of freaked me out. I guess wasn't quite awake yet."

Don's expression softened. "Nightmare again?"

Charlie's eyebrows rose as he considered the question, and his voice was tinged with surprise. "Actually, no. I slept like a rock." He craned his neck to look at the alarm clock. "Wow – after five." He looked up, and finally met Don's eyes. "That's the best I've slept in days. I guess it must help to know that Marsh is finally out of the picture." He looked back over his shoulder. The other crutch was still propped against the wall, and Charlie turned and hopped back toward it. "I thought you were going to go celebrate after work."

"I am," said Don. "Right here." He saw Charlie's head start to turn, a surprised expression on his face, and he turned and headed out the bedroom doorway, not waiting for a response. "Come on out to the living room when you're ready."

* * *

Charlie crutched out to the living room, and Don called to him from the kitchen, over his shoulder. "Have a seat. I'll be right out."

Charlie made his way to the sofa and sat, as the microwave fan sounded from the kitchen. "Maybe he's just heating dinner," thought Charlie. "Maybe he'll head out afterward." He hoped that was the case; he wasn't sure how much more guilt he could handle. He knew Don didn't really want to be here with him, and he was beginning to feel more and more like an inconvenience. He looked up as Don came into the room and he felt a rush of embarrassed surprise, and even more guilt, as he saw that Don was holding two curved glasses.

Don grinned at him, and handed him one of them as he sat himself. "Hurricanes," he said, unnecessarily; Charlie recognized the unique shape of the glass. "Took me a couple of hours to find the doggone glasses, but it was worth it." He held up his drink, and clinked the edge of Charlie's glass. "To the end of a successful mission."

Charlie stared at him, uncomfortably. "You really didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did," responded Don amiably. "You just foiled a major plot to smuggle weapons technology out the country, and put away the last man involved in the plot – that's not something you do every day." He took a sip of his drink. "I've got one of Dad's dinners heating in the microwave – drink up."

Charlie realized his mouth was open, and closed it, then looked at his drink. "I'm not sure I can handle one of these," he said, cautiously.

"I think you can," said Don, cryptically. "Just try it."

There was a straw in the glass, and Charlie took a tentative sip. The drink was smooth, not nearly as strong as the one he'd had in New Orleans. "This is good – did you leave out the alcohol?"

Don smiled, ruefully. "No, there's alcohol in it – it's just the correct amount. I have a confession to make. That first night in New Orleans, Ian had them load your drink up with extra alcohol – you were threatening to come with us, and he figured you wouldn't argue with us if you were, uh, inebriated." He made a face. "Not one my prouder moments." He looked at Charlie, intently, a bit anxiously. "I'm sorry about that, Charlie – in retrospect, we should have just asked you to stay at the hotel."

Charlie sighed. "No, you were right – at the start of that assignment, I probably would have given you a hard time. I was a little too eager to get in on the action." An expression of disgust crossed his face. "You weren't the only one who did that to me – Charlotte did too, the night I -," he broke off and glanced sideways. "the night I thought I did cocaine. Some undercover agent I was – I must have appeared pretty inept for that to happen twice."

"You didn't, Charlie," said Don, quietly. "You actually did a great job, for your first time undercover. You don't have anything to compare it to, so you wouldn't know this, but that was a really complex assignment. Not something you'd usually send a rookie on. Ian and I made mistakes, too – remember the bug Montreaux put in the Monte Carlo we rented? You pulled it out when we were running for the airport. Well, after the accident, our guys also found a GPS tracker in the back seat. That was how Montreaux's men were able to follow us to the highway. Ian and I have experience; when we found the bug under the dash we should have checked the entire vehicle, and we didn't. If we had, Montreaux's men might never have caught up to us, and everything that occurred after that wouldn't have happened. I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that when you're undercover, nothing is predictable. Sometimes you make mistakes – you just roll with the situation, and do the best you can."

Charlie shook his head, apparently unconvinced, and sighed. Don looked at his troubled expression, and a feeling of guilt enveloped him like a cloud. Silence descended for a moment, then suddenly, they both turned to each other, and blurted, "I'm sorry."

Don stared at him; Charlie looked miserable, and for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps Wilkes was right, perhaps he wasn't the only one who was feeling guilty over what had happened. Maybe, just maybe, Charlie's avoidance had to do with something other than resentment or hurt over what Don had done to him. Maybe….

He swallowed the lump in his throat, not daring to hope, as Charlie spoke again. "No, you were absolutely right – that assignment was no place for me. I should have listened to your advice. What happened to you – to us – afterward, was my fault." His eyes glittered with suspicious moisture, and he looked away. "I just – I wanted us to be close – like brothers, instead of colleagues who work together." He snorted softly, derisively. "I had this vision of being this -," he waved his hand vaguely, "- this Secret Agent Man, or something. I thought if I did something bold, that it might make you respect me."

Don stared at him. "Charlie – I do respect you - hell, everyone respects you. There are only a few people in the world who can do what you do."

Charlie grimaced and took a healthy swallow of his drink. "That's exactly what I mean. Everyone sees me as some kind of walking supercomputer. Don't get me wrong – I'm not ungrateful for my abilities. It's just -," he trailed off, searching for words. "I have the feeling that you respect what I can do – but you never respected me as a person, as a man. I never had the social skills, the physical ability – not like you. I guess I took the assignment partially because I wanted you to see me as an equal on a personal level, without all the math." He smiled ruefully. "Wilkes says I have a hero complex when it comes to you – I imagine he's right."

The smile disappeared, he swallowed, and his voice shook. "I love mathematics. I see the world that way, but when it comes to you, all it does it get in the way. All I ever wanted was to have that – human – brotherly – relationship. No numbers – just us, as people. I don't think I would have turned down the assignment – my country needed me, but I also saw it as a chance to finally be seen as a _person_, for us to finally get that closeness." He closed his eyes, his face pinched with pain, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Instead, I nearly got both of us killed, and I ruined what we did have."

Don had been listening, spellbound, hope increasing inside him with every word, but at Charlie's last statement, his heart dropped. It was true – Charlie was trying to tell him he could never look at him the same way again, and the lump in his throat became a painful constriction. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he repeated helplessly, and suddenly it seemed too hard to go on. He could feel tears starting to his eyes, and he closed them and bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to control the wave of grief and regret that was rushing through him. He spoke again through the pain, with his eyes still shut. "I know I did something horrible to you – I still see that conference room in my sleep, and I'm sure you do, too. I just hoped -," His voice cracked; he couldn't go any further, and he dropped his hand, and looked up at the ceiling, agony in his face. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to look at Charlie. Charlie was staring at him, his drink forgotten; tipping precariously in his hand.

Don set his own drink carefully on the coffee table, and reached inside his shirt and pulled out a plastic envelope on a string. "I want to show you something." He pulled out the two folded pieces of paper inside with unsteady hands, unfolded them, and handed one to Charlie. "These are printouts that Wilkes took, representing my feelings for you. The one you're looking at now was taken right before they started my brainwashing; it was how I felt about you before all this started. It's a bar chart – you can see the colored bars, and underneath each bar, the emotion it represents is labeled. You need to disregard the bar over fear – it was higher than normal, because we'd just had the accident, they'd taken you away, and I was worried about you. That wouldn't be there, in a normal situation, but the other bars would."

Charlie set his drink down and stared at the chart, studying the small bars over hatred and envy, and the much larger one over the bar labeled 'love.' Don watched his face as he continued. "Wilkes told me that it was a classic profile of normal familial love – especially of one sibling for another. There's nearly always a component of envy among siblings, and a small amount of dislike – there's always something about any person, especially someone as close as a sibling, that can irritate you. The bar over love, however – he told me that it is stronger than most. I may not always have acted like it, Charlie – hell, I obviously didn't, based on what you just told me, but I always loved and respected you as a person. That sheet proves it." He smiled softly. "It even presents it in quantifiable terms, something even a math geek can appreciate."

Charlie suddenly gave a choked laugh and ran a hand over his face, and when the hand came down, his cheeks were glazed with wetness; the tears had gotten the better of him. "Well," he managed, "isn't that ironic? What I was searching for was right there all along." He put his head down, obviously overcome, and his voice cracked; filled with bitter disappointment. "It was there – and I messed it up…" He stopped and bowed his head, his hand covering his face.

Don stared at him, feeling hope stirring once again, an odd little flutter in his gut. "Charlie, no – just wait a minute, you need to look at this." He handed Charlie the other paper, and Charlie took it and glanced at it, his face still filled with pain.

"This is the same thing." He shoved it back toward Don.

"No it's not," said Don, gently. "Look at the date. That was taken a couple of weeks ago, while we were in the hospital. Wilkes took one last reading before they took the wiring out – it's nearly identical to the first. The bar over fear is still high – at that point, you were still in ICU, and I was pretty worried about you. In fact, if you look, the bar over love is even a little higher. Whatever they did to my head, Charlie – well, it's gone now. We've got Jon Wilkes to thank for that – he deprogrammed me completely." Charlie was staring at the paper, and Don's voice dropped. "The one I've been worried about was you. What happened, what I did, well, it might have programmed _you_, in a manner of speaking. I was afraid you'd never look at me the same way again; that maybe you couldn't stand to be around me, after what I did."

Charlie tore his eyes from the printout, and looked at Don earnestly. "That's not true. It wasn't really you – I know that."

Don smiled sadly. "Charlie – you know it had an effect. The panic attacks, the nightmares…," He paused. "I know _I'll_ always carry it with me – what happened."

"It had an effect," Charlie conceded slowly. "I may even have some PTSD to deal with yet. But the important thing is, I don't associate it with you – I don't blame you. It was Marsh, all along, and even my subconscious must realize that. As soon as we put a name to his face, my dreams started to change – I guess it made him seem real. I told you last night, if I have a nightmare, he's the aggressor in it, not you." His face twisted, sadly, as he regarded the bars over the negative emotions. "However, looking at this – and some of the things you said to me – they were references to the past; they had to be rooted in your true feelings for me."

Don shook his head, and spoke earnestly.. "Charlie, no one who knows us would say that we don't have some issues. Me, most of all." He reached over and jabbed a finger at the paper Charlie was holding, tapping the bar over 'love,' sharply for emphasis. "At the end of the day, though, this bar is the only one that matters, don't you think? If we have that, we can work our way through the rest of it."

Charlie nodded slowly, took a deep unsteady breath, and picked up his glass. "I think I need a drink," he said, and smiled shakily. He raised his glass, and Don grabbed his own glass from the coffee table.

"Here's to starting over," said Charlie, lifting the glass, and the two pairs of dark eyes met.

"There's nothing I would like better, buddy," said Don softly, and they drank to that.

* * *

End Chapter 67

_A/N: And now for the last two chapters, both on the long side. _


	68. Chapter 68

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 68**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: Thanks for your reviews. _

* * *

J. Scott Marsh lay on the cot in his prison cell, and stared at the ceiling. Despair pressed on his chest like a weight; his life was over. He should have fled the country, he realized, in retrospect. He had money in foreign accounts, not a huge amount, but enough to get by on a remote island somewhere. He'd refused to believe that his dreams had been dashed, he had still been convinced that if only he could get rid of the Eppes brothers, and Charlie in particular, he'd still have a shot at renewing his lucrative deal with Aswad Shar'e – he'd have a chance at a fortune that would set him for life, and he'd be able to keep his identity, his freedom to live in the United States, or go anywhere that he wished. Now it was all gone – money, freedom, any reason for living.

He hadn't realized how dire his situation was until that afternoon. His lawyers had informed him that Charlie Eppes had made a positive ID, but Marsh still had an ace in his pocket, or so he had thought. He would try to strike a deal, he reasoned, give up Khalid. Instead, he'd been given the gut-wrenching information that Khalid was dead, and Aswad Shar'e had disbanded. It was all over – there was nothing left but black, blinding hatred against the Eppes brothers, and a feeling of even blacker despair. Tomorrow, they planned to transfer him to a federal prison, to await his trial for treason – or so they thought. Marsh had other plans; he only wished that before he ended his life, he could take the Eppes brothers with him.

It was approaching time for lights out, and the cell blocks were quieting. Marsh slipped out of his jumpsuit under his blankets and waited until the lights went down and the guard went by on his stroll. He would be back fifteen minutes later, but Marsh would be dead by then.

As soon as the guard went by, Marsh quietly slipped out of his cot and twisted the jumpsuit a few times, then put it around his neck and began twisting the ends. As soon as he had it to an appropriate tightness, he kneeled and tied the free ends – the arms and legs of the suit - to the leg of his cot, which was metal, and bolted to the floor. Then he lay down and began to flip over, again and again, tightening the fabric around his neck, tighter, tighter, until it choked off his breath. He lay there, fighting the overwhelming sense to undo his makeshift noose, fighting the desperate urge for air, the burning in his lungs, the sense of fucking _panic_…

He came to in the ambulance, swaying on a gurney as the vehicle lurched around a corner. As he realized that he'd made it; he was still alive, a huge wave of despair and helpless anger washed over him, but somehow, he kept his features composed. Through slit lids, he could see that there was a medic in the back, and sitting less than two feet away, an armed LAPD officer. He slowly, imperceptibly moved his hands; he wasn't cuffed – they clearly still thought that he was unconscious. He could still end his life – he could lunge for the guard and grab his pistol, and…

And _escape_. He turned the word over his mind, wonderingly. He probably wouldn't get far, but he could go out on his terms. He could make them shoot him, make _them_ take his life. His heart quickened as another thought occurred to him. He could end it, certainly, but as he went, he could get revenge...

He waited until the ambulance roared around another corner and the officer and the medic both reached for something to steady themselves, and, using the momentum of the turn, he flung himself at the officer. The struggle was brief; the man was completely surprised, and a shot rang out as Marsh squeezed the trigger. The officer sagged to the floor and the ambulance jerked as the driver stepped on the brake. Marsh got to his feet and staggered around to face the driver and the medic in the back, his breath harsh in his throat, his eyes alight with crazed malice. "Keep driving!" he rasped, the words tearing from his aching throat, "and don't touch that radio!"

The man behind the wheel shot him a quick glance in the review mirror, terror in his face, and complied, and Marsh tried to collect his thoughts. He was still groggy from the after effects of his near strangling; he had to think…

_Bang! _Another gun report sounded, as Marsh made his first decision, and the medic in the back of the vehicle slowly sagged to the ground, the fear in his eyes giving way to a dull stare as his life faded. The medic had been too close to him, Marsh had decided, too much of a threat. Now it was just him and the driver. "Keep going to the hospital," he commanded the terror-stricken driver. "Keep both hands on the wheel where I can see them. If they speak to you over the radio, act normally."

There was a small window in each of the double doors in the back of the ambulance, too high up for anyone to see in, but Marsh straightened took a quick peek out. Sure enough, a marked LAPD sedan was following behind them, unaware of what had just happened inside the ambulance. He shot a glance out the front. No police in front, just the one unit, then, behind him. Somehow, he'd have to deal with them. Keeping his eyes on the driver, he bent over the fallen officer, fumbling for his spare ammo clip, then straightened, taking care to stay out of sight of the windows. He ran a hand over his raw, aching neck, and took in a deep breath. "How far are we from the hospital?"

"Seven minutes out," came the shaky response.

Seven minutes. Marsh had to move fast. He was clad in only his underwear, and he stooped again, still watching the driver, and awkwardly, with one hand, began to strip off the medic's uniform.

* * *

Don looked down at the sleeping figure on the sofa, and smiled softly. Charlie was sprawled on his side, completely out, his face relaxed, his breathing even. They'd made their way through Dad's chicken a la king and several more hours of conversation, and Don had lost count of the Hurricanes, although he was fairly certain he'd out-drunk Charlie two to one. They'd talked about everything; rehashing the entire case, some of it not so pleasant, but going through it was cathartic. As the night wore on, the conversation lightened; both of them were giddy with Hurricanes, relief, and a newfound sense of hope – the hope that not only might they get back to where they were before, but that maybe the ordeal had finally bridged a gap between them.

He yawned and blinked sleepily, weaving a little. Too many drinks, and not enough sleep, he decided. He trudged over and got the blanket from its resting spot on the chair and laid it gently over Charlie. No sense trying to move him to the bed; he was sleeping soundly. Don trudged back to his bed himself, and crawled onto the bed and collapsed, not caring that the bed was rumpled, or that it smelled faintly of Charlie. In fact, that was a bonus, as far as he was concerned; an olfactory reminder of a newfound sense of closeness. He drifted off to sleep, with a slight smile playing on his lips.

* * *

Bill Masters and Brian Rogan met outside their hotel room, both on the run for Masters' rental SUV. "What happened?" asked Rogan breathlessly, as they sprinted for the vehicle. Masters was shrugging on his jacket over his shoulder holster, and he wrenched open the driver's side door.

"Lieutenant Walker just called," he panted, as Rogan threw himself into the passenger seat and they slammed the doors. "Marsh just tried to kill himself – he might have been successful, they're not sure yet. They got his heart going again at the prison, but they don't know how long he was without oxygen - he could be brain dead. They're transporting him to Cedars by ambulance."

Rogan shot him a perturbed look, and tried to steady himself as Masters squealed out of the parking lot. "Under guard, I hope."

Masters nodded. "They've got an officer in the bus with him, and a marked unit following. Walker is on his way there – we'll meet him at the hospital."

* * *

"Pull up here, and wait."

The ambulance driver complied with his instructions, pulling over outside the emergency bay with shaking hands. Marsh sat and waited; the LAPD unit had been following closely, and even without looking out the windows, he was sure they'd pulled up behind them. The officers in the vehicle were probably wondering why there was no activity – why the medic wasn't opening the doors. He waited until he heard the latch on the door begin to lift, and then he leaned back on the edge of the gurney and kicked the doors hard. They flung open on the two surprised officers; they had their guns drawn, but the doors made them take a step backwards and lift the guns out of the way, and Marsh fired two shots in quick succession, taking them both out. He was out of the back immediately, running for a Honda sedan that was pulled over to the curb, where a young man was carefully helping his very pregnant wife out on the passenger side. Marsh waved a gun at them. "Give me your keys!" he rasped, and the astonished couple stared, and then the young man nervously tossed the keys toward Marsh and they backed away. Marsh caught a brief glimpse of the terror on their faces and the shock on the face of another medic, who had come out to assist with the ambulance. Marsh ran around the front of the Honda, jumped in and gunned the gas.

Once in the car, he had the almost irresistible urge to hit the highway and keep going, but he forced himself to think. He had a bag in the locker at the gym where he had stored the vest – it had several things that could be useful to him, including two sets of fake ID. He could simply run and get it, and head for one of the borders. However, if he could take out the Eppes brothers before he fled, it would improve his long term prospects for freedom. It wouldn't change his short-term prospects – they would hunt him hard during the immediate aftermath. If he was lucky enough to escape to another country, however, and the hunt died down, there would be less chance that they would keep up that search for him, if Charlie Eppes was gone. They would be minus their most important witness, after all, and their treason case would probably fold. He would still be considered a murder suspect, but that probably wouldn't warrant the resources required for an international search…

Going for the Eppes brothers _was_ risky, but it had a long-term upside. It also had a short-term one – revenge. Marsh could almost taste it. Plus, he knew where they were – he'd heard his lawyers and the U.S. prosecutors conversing in the hallway after the line-up that morning, heard one of them say where they could reach Charlie Eppes – that he was staying with his brother. That knowledge, and the convenience of the arrangement – both of them there together, was the deciding factor. He could hit them now, quickly, before the word got out that he was free, stop for his bag at the gym, and be gone. He gunned the gas, and headed for Don Eppes' apartment.

He'd been there before more than once to reconnoiter, but he'd never been inside. The vest had been delivered by mail, and the knife and gun had been left for Don by one of Jorge Cazares' acquaintances. Marsh did know the outside layout, however, and where the surveillance units placed themselves. A slow drive by and a quick look at the parking area revealed that there was only one man on guard; he was sitting alone in his SUV. No doubt they thought that more surveillance wasn't necessary, with Marsh in custody. Marsh smiled, swung around the corner, and parked the Honda.

A few moments later, he crept up next to the SUV, gun in hand, wrenched open the door, stuck the gun right into the surprised man's gut, and fired. He had pointed the barrel upward so the bullet would travel into the man's chest, and he died instantly; his eyes glazing, staring sightless as he slumped in the seat. His body had acted like a silencer of sorts and muffled the shot, but there was still an audible 'pop;' and Marsh looked around the dark lot quickly. There was no sign of anyone around, no sign that anyone had heard, and he quickly felt in the man's pockets. More than likely, a man on surveillance would be given keys to the building and the apartment, so he could gain quick access if needed. Marsh's fingers closed on a ring holding two keys; a separate set of keys hung from the ignition, so more than likely these two were the right ones. He took the set from the ignition also, just in case, and pushed the man over so that he wouldn't be visible to any passers-by, then shut the door and turned for the apartment building. By the time the radio crackled in the officer's SUV, Marsh was already inside the building.

* * *

Rogan and Masters had no problem finding the emergency entrance to Cedars; they could see the flashing lights of a police car from two blocks away. They pulled to a screeching stop and jumped out of the vehicle, sprinting toward Lieutenant Walker. Masters could see two officers on the ground, medics bent over them, and more medics pulling someone from the ambulance. "What happened?" gasped Masters, as they pulled up next to Walker.

Walkers face was grim. "Marsh escaped. Apparently, he came to and overpowered the guard in the ambulance, shot him and the medic in back. He instructed the driver to pull over at the hospital, and then just waited. When our men in the patrol went to find out why they were taking so long to open the door, he was waiting for them – shot them both as the doors opened. He commandeered a Honda sedan – we've got an APB out for it. I've got all my available units out on the street, and I called A.D. Wright – he's getting his people out also."

Masters stared at him, stunned. "Shit – I can't believe it. We had the bastard wrapped up. How in the hell was he able to attempt suicide to begin with?"

Walker's lips tightened, and he shook his head. "He used his jumpsuit – took it off, twisted it, put it around his neck and tied the ends to the leg of his cot, and kept turning until it twisted tightly enough to cut off his air supply. We think it was a legitimate attempt at suicide and not a planned escape, but when he woke in the ambulance he took advantage of the situation."

"What about the Eppes brothers?" asked Rogan, concern growing in his face.

"One of my men is on the radio to the surveillance unit outside Don's apartment. We've got another unit on the way, and Wright is sending a couple of agents over."

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth, than an officer jogged up to them, panting. "Excuse me sir, but I need to tell you that we're not able to raise the officer on surveillance at Agent Eppes' apartment. We can't get Eppes on his cell phone, either. We've got units on the way, but the nearest one is at least five minutes out."

"Damn it," muttered Masters, and he turned for his vehicle, Rogan following his lead. Masters shot back at Walker over his shoulder, "We're heading over there – keep us posted if you hear anything from your men!"

* * *

Colby Granger flipped his phone open as he sped through the dark streets, and put it on speaker. "Yeah, David. Where are you?"

David's voice floated out from the phone. "I'm on the 10. I just got a call from Wright – we're to divert straight to Don's apartment. Apparently, they haven't been able to raise either Don or the officer on surveillance there."

"Shit," muttered Colby, under his breath, his heart rate ratcheting up a notch. "Okay, I'm headed that way now. I'll see you there."

He flipped his phone shut, punched on his lights, and gunned the gas, his face grim.

* * *

Don stirred restlessly, as a faint sound reached his ears. Frowning sleepily, he opened his eyes, trying to place it; he had the impression of the muffled distant report of a gun, and he lay there for a moment, half-asleep, listening. The silence stretched, and he drifted back off to sleep.

He jerked awake a few moments later, certain that something was wrong. He'd heard a noise again, he was sure of it, but he couldn't place the sound. He lay there, completely motionless, and then he heard it – the soft click of the front door latching. His heart gave a painful leap, then settled into an equally painful thumping and he leaned over on his elbow, easing the drawer of his dresser open, and lifted out his service piece. It had just been reissued to him the day before, and he hadn't even loaded it yet – he had simply stuffed it in the drawer, out of Charlie's sight; he hadn't wanted to make him nervous. He felt in the drawer for a clip of ammo, and in the dark, underneath the blankets to muffle the sound, he slid out the empty clip and put in the loaded one. Just as it slid home, he heard a muffled, surprised sound from Charlie, and then a light clicked on in the living room. He could hear a faint buzzing noise – it was his cell phone on the dresser across the room, and he mentally cursed himself. He usually always set it to 'ring' at night so it would wake him, but under the effects of the drinks, he'd forgotten and left it on 'vibrate.' He wondered who had been trying to call him and for how long. Had someone been trying to warn him? All of that went through his head in a split second, as he slid quietly off the bed.

As a voice floated in from the living room he froze, staring toward the doorway. "Come out, Agent Eppes, unarmed and with your hands over your head, if you want your brother to live." It sounded like Marsh, and Don's head whirled. How on earth could that be? For a moment, he wondered wildly if there was someone else in on this, like Rogan or Masters, or someone even higher, with the power to set Marsh free. After all of the lying, the mind games, the cover-ups, he didn't trust anyone anymore. He also knew that if he went out unarmed, they would both be dead; Marsh would shoot him first, and then deal with Charlie.

There was a thumping noise and an indistinct noise from Charlie, and Don slid out of bed, still holding his service revolver, as Charlie's voice came from the living room. "Don, don't –," It broke off suddenly, transforming into a sharp grunt of pain, and Don's jaw tightened. The apartment phone began to ring, and he used the noise as cover as he crept forward, crouching slightly as he headed down the hallway, hands extended, holding his service weapon. He reached the end, took a deep breath, and swung around the corner.

* * *

End Chapter 68

_A/N: One more cliffie for you! Next up, the conclusion. _


	69. Chapter 69

**Mind Games **

**Chapter 69**

_See Chapter 1 for disclaimer_

_A/N: And now – a little over one year since I started writing this fic - for the final chapter. _

……………………………………………………………

Colby made a hard right into the parking area, his tires screeching in protest, right behind David, and another SUV pulled in directly behind him. It contained Rogan and Masters; Colby had seen them in his rearview mirror, and the four of them leapt out of their vehicles and ran toward another SUV, parked in the lot. There was patrol car pulled in front of it, lights flashing, and a patrolman stepped forward as they pounded to a halt, jerking his head toward the vehicle. "We've got a casualty," he said, his face tight. "One of our guys – he was on surveillance duty. Looks like he was shot, right in the vehicle. No sign of the perp, or anyone else for that matter, when we got here."

David gave him a nod and looked at the others. "I tried calling Don – I couldn't get an answer. Colby and I are going up."

"We're coming with you," said Masters, his words directed toward their backs; the FBI agents were already sprinting toward the building.

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Charlie blinked, as a thin stream of blood trickled into his right eye.

He'd been roughly awakened from a dead sleep by a strong hand pulling him off the sofa, and he'd instinctively gotten his good foot on the floor, trying to pull away, a startled, indistinct noise coming from him as he did. As the hand pulled harder, he found himself upright, his weight on his good foot, the back of his shirt gathered in someone's fist; and he could feel cold metal press against his temple. His heart thudded in his chest. "Don't move," a voice hissed.

The man shifted his grip, releasing his collar and quickly sliding his arm around Charlie's throat, then dragged him a step, pulling him toward the end table. The arm around his throat tightened, and he felt the gun leave his temple as the man reached to turn on the light. Then it was back, cold and hard against his head. The man called out, "Come out, Agent Eppes, unarmed and with your hands over your head, if you want your brother to live," and it was then that Charlie realized it was Marsh. His voice sounded hoarse, raspy, but it was him, and Charlie's heart contracted in fear as the gun left his head once again, and Marsh's arm extended, pointing toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. As soon as Don showed himself, Marsh would shoot.

"Don, don't -," Charlie blurted, but the words were cut off by a grunt of pain as the gun found his head again; this time with a sharp rap. He saw stars and blinked, trying to clear them, and then felt the sensation of something wet sliding through the hair on his scalp, dripping down the side of his forehead toward his eye. At the same time, he caught his breath as Don swung through the opening, gun extended. His eyes were dark and dangerous, and Charlie felt an involuntary start of fear at the sight, even though his rational mind knew that the hatred in Don's eyes wasn't directed at him. He forced it aside, as Marsh, who had been aiming at the opening that led to the hall, pulled his gun back quickly and put it to Charlie's head again. Apparently, upon seeing that Don was armed, he had reconsidered his plan.

"Drop the gun, Eppes, or I blow his brains out," rasped Marsh. "I've got nothing to lose. I'm not going back to prison – I don't give a shit if you kill me, and if you don't listen, I'll take him with me."

Don kept his weapon level, but Charlie could now see the apprehension in his eyes. He was wavering, and Charlie knew that the moment Don dropped his gun he would be a dead man. He had to act, had to create a distraction somehow. He was held tight against Marsh's body and he could sense the position of Marsh's legs and feet. Quickly pulling his upper body forward and swinging his cast back between Marsh's legs, he then forced it around behind Marsh's left leg. Then, in almost the same instant, he shifted his weight backwards, pushing his upper body into Marsh's. Marsh tried to move his feet to compensate and maintain his balance, but Charlie's cast was blocking the movement of his left foot, and he tilted backwards. Had it merely been Charlie's leg, Marsh might have been able to get around it, but the stiff, cumbersome cast proved to be too much of an obstacle.

It was a variation of the move that Charlie had learned in his FBI defense classes, similar to the move he'd used on his own brother at the Craftsman, weeks ago, and Charlie could feel Marsh jerk as he lost his balance, and they both fell backwards. At the same time, a deafening report went off in his ear as the gun discharged, and then he went down with Marsh in a tangle of arms and legs. His cast was trapped between Marsh's legs, and as he hit, the odd angle of his leg and the fact that Marsh's leg acted like a fulcrum created a force that was enough to deflect the cast – slightly and instantaneously, but sufficient to put stress on the weak, healing bones. He felt something in his leg give and shift, a sickening lightning bolt of pain ran from his lower leg up his spine, and it stole his breath, made his head swim. As he tried to fight it back, he could feel Marsh pushing him aside and rising to a sitting position, could see the gun coming up again, and then another shot sounded.

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David yanked open the outer door to the apartment building and they darted inside, one after another. He didn't have a key, but someone, Colby noticed, probably Marsh, had left a small stone in the door to prop it open, just enough to keep it from latching, undoubtedly planning ahead in case he had to make quick getaway. Just as they got inside, a shot sounded above their heads. It was muffled by the doors and walls between them and the source of the noise, but it was without question a gunshot, and they leapt up the staircase and pushed through the door at the top as a second shot sounded. Don's apartment door was unlatched, and David barged through it without hesitation, Colby on his heels, guns extended. Rogan and Masters barreled in behind them, and then the four of them stopped, chests heaving, as they took in the scene.

Charlie was in the act of crawling across the floor as they burst through the door, his face contorted in an expression of fear and agony as he reached the far wall near the hallway and collapsed against it next to his brother. Don had slid to a seated position, leaning against the wall, and Colby's heart jumped as he saw the red stain blooming on the left side of Don's T-shirt, and the blood streaming down the side of Charlie's face. He cast a quick glance sideways as he moved toward them, taking in the fact that Marsh was lying on the floor, a dark stain on his chest, a bullet hole, black and glistening, in the center of it. Marsh was gasping, his breath making horrible rattling sounds in his throat, his eyes wide as he fought for air. Beyond him lay his gun, and as Colby reached Don and Charlie, he saw David move to secure the weapon and bend over Marsh.

Charlie was moaning Don's name and was weakly pulling at his shirt to get a look at the wound, and Don was beginning to push himself upright as Colby knelt beside them. "No, don't move, Don, just wait," he commanded, and gently pushed Charlie's hands aside and lifted Don's shirt, anxiously scanning the wound. It was bleeding profusely, but it appeared to be a simple gash in the skin along his rib cage, and as he glanced upward, he saw a hole in the wall where the bullet had entered. Charlie looked pale and nearly in shock, and Colby hastened to say, "It just looks like a gash," just as Rogan appeared behind him with a clean towel snatched from the kitchen to press on the wound.

Don hissed as the pressure was applied, and scowled at Colby. "I could have told you that, Granger." The initial shock of the hit was wearing off, and Don appeared to be regaining his senses as he looked anxiously at Charlie, who had slumped against the wall, shaking with relief and pain, and closed his eyes. "Charlie, hey, there, buddy. Look at me. Are you okay?"

Charlie blinked, his face pinched with agony. "My leg -," he managed to whisper, and Colby saw the tension in Don's shoulders relax a little, although the concern remained in his face as he took in the pain on Charlie's face, and the blood trickling down his cheek. Rogan kneeled next to Charlie and checked his head wound, as Masters got on the phone behind them, calling for ambulances.

Colby glanced back at Marsh, who took one last strangled gasp, his eyes rolling back in his head. His lids drifted halfway shut and stopped there, and David reached out and felt for a pulse. Colby was a little shocked at the sense of satisfaction he felt as David said, "Tell them one of them is gonna be DOS," and he stared at Marsh's body, his blue eyes flashing with the grim light of retribution.

He turned back to Don and Charlie, who were both slumped against the wall, now staring at Marsh with identical expressions. Charlie was gripping his brother's hand tightly, both of them white-faced with pain, and the dawning realization of how close they'd come to death. Don began quietly recounting what had happened, explaining how Charlie had tripped Marsh, who had fired at Don as he went down.

"As he sat back up, he aimed the gun at me again. I saw the opportunity for a clear shot," Don said calmly, "and I took it." Except for lines of pain, his face was nearly expressionless, but Colby could see an almost identical expression of satisfaction in his SAC's eyes, and it was echoed on Masters' face, as he came to stand next to David and looked down at Marsh's body.

"Death was too good for that bastard," Masters said softly, and they nodded.

"Yeah," Colby agreed, as they gazed at Marsh. "You got that right."

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A week and a half later, Alan knocked softly on Don's apartment door, still slightly out of breath from ascending the stairs so quickly. It was unlatched, and he didn't wait for a response; he turned the knob and stepped inside. His sons were seated together on the sofa - two dark heads came up in tandem, two warm relaxed smiles greeted him, and for a moment, he just stood there, as a little knot released inside his chest. Jonathan Wilkes had been right; putting his boys together for a couple of weeks had been the right thing to do.

"Well, you two looked like you survived," he said smiling, and he saw his sons exchange a glance, and then grin at each other. "What?" Alan asked, looking from one of them to the other.

Don simply shrugged, and said, "We're doing fine, Dad. Welcome back."

Alan peered at Charlie. "You, however, don't look like you've been eating my dinners."

Again there was an exchanged glance, and then Don looked back at Alan. "He, uh, spent a couple of days eating hospital food, Dad. He hurt his leg, and they decided to move up his surgery."

"What? Why didn't you call me?" sputtered Alan, with indignation.

"The good news is, it's all done, Dad," Charlie said, trying to mollify him. "They put in a plate and a few pins, and now all I have to do is heal up. After that, a little physical therapy, and I'll be walking again."

Alan stared at him, then at Don, suspicion growing in his face. "Why do I have a feeling that there's more to this story?"

Charlie's eyes moved unconsciously past him, and Alan glanced in that direction. There was a gouge in the wall near the hallway that led back to Don's bedroom that looked like a – "Is that a bullet hole?" Alan asked, his voice rising.

Don sighed. "Dad, sit down. There are a few things we have to tell you."

Several minutes later, Don reached the end of his explanation, and silence fell. Alan sat there for a moment, processing the information he'd just been given, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see his sons' sheepish expressions. They were sitting silently, waiting for an outburst, and it reminded him of the time they'd they come in to confess they'd broken the garage window with a baseball. "And you didn't think it necessary to tell me what was going on."

Don and Charlie shot each other yet another glance. Alan maintained a stern look on his face – granted, the information was shocking, and he was frankly astounded that they'd kept it from him, but inside, he felt like dancing for joy. Their body language, their expressions when they looked at each other, the very fact that they'd collaborated, schemed together, all spoke to the fact that they'd beaten back the barriers between them. Still, he wasn't going to let them off the hook so easily. He looked at them with an admonishing expression.

"That was my fault, Dad," said Charlie slowly. "It was already over, Marsh was dead. Don just needed some stitches – they didn't even keep him in the hospital that night." He glanced at Don, with a glimmer of gratitude in his dark eyes. "Not that he left anyway. He slept on the recliner in my room. They did the surgery on my leg the next day – you couldn't have gotten back from Juneau in time anyhow, and you just would have stewed. I talked Don into not telling you." He grinned, and his dark eyes danced mischievously. "Plus, Don makes such a good servant."

"Don't think you're not gonna pay me back, Chuck," Don growled, with mock gruffness, his eyes glinting with affection. He reached over and tried to ruffle Charlie's hair, and Charlie, grinning, batted his hand away.

Alan shook his head and smiled, and then his expression sobered. "So, where does that leave you? Is there going to be any kind of inquiry – will either of you need to testify?"

Don shook his head. "No – it's over, Dad, all of it. We're done except for some counseling." He glanced at Charlie, and then looked back at Alan, steadily. "We've come a long way, but Wilkes is insisting that we do some follow up sessions. He has to get back to New Orleans, but he said he would assign someone with the proper clearances for the information to meet with us." As he spoke, a knock sounded at the door, and Don glanced at his watch. "In fact, that's probably him now – Charlie has an appointment in five minutes, and I asked Wilkes to have the therapist come here."

He rose to answer the door, and Charlie said softly, "This stuff was pretty sensitive – it makes you wonder who they found with the clearances to do the therapy." A bemused expression came to his face, and Alan turned in time to catch Don standing at the door, with a look of surprise.

"Well," said a familiar voice, "are you going to stand there, or are you going to let me in?" Don stepped back with a grin, and Megan Reeves sauntered into the room with a smile. "Hi guys." She raised an eyebrow at Charlie. "Don't look so surprised. You have to admit, there aren't that many people with a background in psychology, who also happen to know the particulars of this case." Her smile turned teasing. "In math terms, Charlie, those two subsets barely intersect."

Charlie had managed to recover from his initial surprise, and said with a grin, "You know, Megan, you're absolutely right."

Don rubbed the back of his head, still smiling, but he looked slightly uncomfortable, and edged toward the door. "Charlie's first," he said hastily. "C'mon, Dad, let's go get lunch."

He didn't wait, he headed straight out the open door, and Megan called after him. "You're not getting away from me, Don Eppes – I will track you down!"

Alan scooted past her, with a grin and a nod. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll bring him back."

She turned to look at Charlie as Alan shut the door, and Charlie said, softly, "I don't think you'll have a problem getting him to talk. He's been doing a pretty good job of that lately." He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

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_Three months later…_

Don pulled Charlie's pack out of the SUV and handed it to him, hesitating before he relinquished his grip. "Are you sure you're up for this? Maybe we should just make this a day hike."

Charlie shook his head. "I'm fine. I told you, I've been walking five miles a day, and last Saturday, I did ten."

"Yeah, I know, I was at the house when you got back, and you were limping, remember?"

Charlie shrugged on his pack, with an unconcerned expression. "As long as we don't try to do too much in one day, I'll be okay." He sent Don a sly grin. "Don't tell me you're trying to weasel out of this."

Don's face relaxed and he smiled back. Charlie did look fine; he was still about five pounds underweight, but his color was good. His dark curls danced around his face as he smiled up at him, and Don had a sudden flashback of a night, months ago, in Chicago, just before they began their mission. They'd stepped out of a bar, and Charlie had looked up at him, just that way, his face illuminated by a streetlight, his hair ruffled by the cold Chicago lake breeze. He wore same expression of brotherly affection, held the same glimmer of anticipation in his eyes – not for the mission, as Don knew now, but because Charlie was looking forward to spending time with him. Chicago, and the start of the mission - it seemed so long ago, but somehow, they were closer to that point, to each other, than they had been any time in between. In fact, perhaps closer than they'd ever been in their lives.

"Weasel out? Not a chance," he said. His eyes rested on Charlie's face for a moment, and his smile faded slightly. "I was afraid you might."

Charlie's eyes wandered over to the sign at the edge of the parking space, and his expression turned thoughtful. "The last time we were here should have told you the answer to that," he said quietly. "If I followed you into these woods then, you should know that I'd follow you anywhere." He looked up, smiling a bit shyly, as if abashed by his own statement, but his eyes were clear, intent, and Don knew that he meant every word.

"Likewise, buddy," he said softly. "Well, then, let's hit the trail."

He heaved on his own pack, closed the hatch of the SUV and hit the lock button, and they headed toward the trail head. 'Welcome to the Angeles National Forest,' said the sign, and below it, were the words, 'Ridgeline Trail.'

Don's pack was heavy, and he shifted it with a grunt. Something inside clinked, and Charlie frowned. "That sounded like glass. What do you have in there, anyway?"

Don grinned at him. "Just a little something for our fireside chats."

Charlie's frown of confusion faded to a curious smile. "What?"

Don's grin broadened, and he took a deep breath of fresh air and tilted his face to the sky as they stepped onto the trail. "Hurricanes, Secret Agent Man. Hurricanes."

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End

**Mind Games Copyright 2009**

_A/N: In case you were wondering, that was the original ending for this story. I killed Marsh off for a couple of reasons – first and foremost because I think it was the most appropriate ending for this fic. There is more than one way to spin a sequel to this even without him, but truthfully, I have other bunnies for other stories hopping around, and I will probably deal with them first. My next story, which I am already working on, is much shorter. It's not related to this fic at all, although this story birthed the bunny for that one. _

_Many, many thanks to FraidyCat for doing the grammar and sense checks on this for me – not a small task considering the length. And many more thanks to all my reviewers, and especially that faithful group who reviewed every chapter. Posting something this long takes some effort, especially posting multiple times per week, and you all kept me going. I was also delighted to see some first reviews in this piece – thank you so much to everyone who reviewed; you make feel very humble. _

_Thanks again, and I'll see you (hopefully) in a few weeks. SG_


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